Harriet Daimler

Darling

CHAPTER I

He drove the car rapidly down the street, looking occasionally at the girl' s figure, huddled against the door. Mostly he watched the empty road and felt the car glide over the pavement. He turned down Seventh Avenue, and she still hadn' t spoken. At Tenth Street, he stopped the car and turned toward her. She leaned her elbow against the door handle and was already half on the sidewalk, calling, " Thank you," over her shoulder, when he reached over and pulled her back into her seat.

" What' s the hurry? What' syour hurry?"

" I' m tired, Paul," she explained.

" My God," he answered. " You' re fine all night. I really think you' re relaxing and having a good time, but you always make the goodnight the briefest, coldest moment of the day."

" I' m sorry," she said again humbly. " You know me."

" I don' t know you, Gloria. Does anyone know you? Do you ever sit still long enough to be known?"

She was getting impatient, and said, " For crying out loud. How often can you go over the same theme. No, I don' t sit still. No, I don' t like dragged- out goodnights. No, I don' t care if I never see you again. Yes, I' m tired."

" Look, honey," he interrupted her, " I' m not going to rape you."

She smiled cruelly at the suggestion. " No one' s going to rape me. It takes a very cooperative woman to get raped. A man might get me to the floor, but he wouldn' t get further."

Paul said, " Why speculate? Why don' t you let me love you the way I want to? I swear to you Gloria, the way I feel about you, it would be wonderful for both of us. I' d really make you want it. I' d make you want it till you cried for it." And he put his open mouth on her ear. " It' s not fair for a woman as beautiful and sensuous as you to put men off. You were obviously put on earth to satisfy, not torment us."

Feeling his tongue nuzzling wet inside her ear, she shuddered with excitement and horror.

" Get away from me," she said with anger, and he couldn' t hear the terror in her voice. " When I' m willing and ready to give myself to a man, I will. I don' t need you licking my face like a stupid dog to convince me."

His fury relieved the bitterness inside her.

The man was livid at her gross refusal. " You whore," he whispered to her. " You whore with a virgin' s cunt. What are you waiting for? When are you going to give your rare gift away?"

" It' s not that," she told him tiredly. Her voice was calm. " You know it' s not that. It' s just that I' m not interested."

" Not interested!" he shouted. " What the hell are you talking about? You sound as if you' re returning a library book."

" I don' t want it," she screamed. " I hate the whole phony slobbering business."

" You' re a teasing bitch," he spat at her. " And you' ll never know what it means to feel like a woman."

" What does it mean," she mocked, " to feel like a woman? What' s so different and special about being a woman?"

" You fool!" Paul roared. " You' ll never know what it means to spread your knees and say to a man, ' Fill me with your prick because I' m dying from emptiness.'"

" Don' t," she begged. " Don' t talk to me like that. Don' t dare."

" You' ll never know it from me," he continued as if he hadn' t heard. " And no man is going to wait as long as I did. Give it up, baby. Put on pants and wipe the mascara off your eyes and make it with the girls. Mona' s Bar is full of dykes who are just waiting for you. They' ve seen the dead look in your eyes, and they know it' ll take a woman' s hand to make you feel like a woman. You disgust me. You' re worse than a whore."

She listened with rapt pain, thinking, he' s going to hit me when he' s finished, and she waited with an ecstasy she did not understand. Her heart felt as though a strong hand were clutching and numbing it.

" Why don' t you hit me?" she breathlessly demanded.

Paul looked down at her with a contempt that was as cold as his wanting of her had been hot. " I wouldn' t touch you baby," he said. " I' ll just let you rot untouched. The ladies like to get a virgin. When they see the blood on their hands, they know they' ve got them forever." He practically pushed her out of the car without so much as a glance back. She stood motionless till she heard the drone of the engine fade away around the corner of Sixth Avenue. The street lay dark ahead of her.

Oh God, oh God, she thought, I hate men. I hate their hungry faces and their moving hands. I hate them when they press against me and I feel their pants bulging. I' ll never let one love me. Imagine being naked on a bed and having them crawl all over you and pull your legs apart. When you lay flat and broken like a defeated enemy, and they stick their stiff prick in you, that' s the only part of them that' s got feeling left. They' re like crazy animals till they spurt their vicious fluid in you. And then you' re supposed to kiss their feet and pretend that you enjoyed it. They' ll never have me. Nor will a woman. I don' t want some woman' s tongue and long- nailed fingers to stroke me into an excitement that interferes with my thinking and breathing. Yes, I' ll do it myself. And I' ll go to my grave never having been a fool for some sexual machine.

Numbly, Gloria pushed her shoulders against her door. It opened for her, and she closed out the silent street behind her and placed her hand on the dimly lit banister.

At first she didn' t feel the hand that covered hers; her heart was beating so loud in her chest from the distasteful scene with Paul and her thoughts were cutting out the world around her. But as she moved up the first step, she felt the iron- like hold, paralyzing her. She looked down from her height into cruel eyes. The blue of the man' s eyes was so light that his face looked like a portrait painted by a madman who had left the eyes, where the soul would have been, the dead white of the canvas. A shock of black hair covered his head. His mouth smiled grimly at her mute terror.

" Come down off the step, lady," he whispered. " We' re going to have a little party."

She opened her mouth to scream, realizing that no sound could come out of her. And then she felt his knife edging into the small of her back, pressing against her with the frigid indifference of steel.

" I gotta fuck some bitch and you' re the lucky cunt." He laughed soundlessly. " It' s an honor baby, cause I got a cock as big as the Eiffel Tower."

Listening to him, she regained her senses. I' ll talk him out of it, she thought.

" Look, mister," she implored, " I' ll give you all the money I have. I' m a virgin… I' m a virgin and I' m getting married next week. And you' ll ruin my life if you… if you… take me. Because then my fiance will never marry me. You see, he wants a… a… pure girl."

The man looked at her with his vacant eyes. " I like virgins," he whispered. " C' mon virgin, we' ll bleed all over this fancy hall." Effortlessly, he pushed her down to the floor in the little black alcove behind the stairway. She found her voice to scream and he slapped her face until her ears were deafened with a ringing inside her head that cut off the whole world.

" Unbutton my pants, you whore," he commanded.

" No," she gasped, " no, I can' t touch you."

He grabbed her hand and placed it solidly across the mound in his pants.

" Unbutton them you bitch. My prick wants to be free to dig inside of you."

She felt his knife against her ribs. With trembling hands, she unbuckled his belt.

" That' s it! That' s it! Do a good job, virgin."

She moved her fingers to the first button and he shoved her hand deep inside his pants so she could feel his hot, pulsating flesh. " Faster, faster, you cunt," he commanded. Slowly and miserably, she undid the last button. He wore no underpants.

" Pull my fly open; pull it open."

She did as she was told. His prick was folded primly between his thighs, covering his balls. " Now pull it out. Gently, gently… with all the love in your fucking whore' s heart," and again he laughed madly and excitedly. His cock leaped out straight beneath her fingers. It was veined and white, almost purple at the tip. It was huge and massive, bigger than anything she thought a man could fold between his legs.

" Kiss it," he said. His voice trembled. " Open your virgin' s mouth and suck it."

She thought she would vomit with disgust and horror.

" Suck it! Suck it, you pure cunt." She put the tip of his prick in her mouth, feeling it jump with life against her teeth.

" Spread your teeth… spread your teeth," he screamed under his breath. He grabbed her head, pressing it against him so that his prick went cruelly between her teeth, gagging her at the back of her throat.

" Lick it. Lick it like it' s candy. Better than the best at Fanny Farmer, huh?" He laughed again and pulled her head back, sticking his hand crudely in her mouth and pulling her tongue out.

" Here, here," he directed. " Where the vein bulges. Suck it up and down. Play with my balls. Play with my balls and suck the shaft up and down… ahh…" He seemed hypnotized by the motion of her unwilling head. " Enough, you bitch. I' m going to come inside you like a Fourth of July celebration. I' m going to explode inside your pure cunt."

He threw her head down, twisting himself quickly on top of her body. Then he got on his knees and pulled her legs around his kneeling body. His prick bobbed stiff and angry before him. He took his knife out and bent his head near hers.

Good, he' s going to kill me. I' d rather die. I' d rather die.

But delicately and surely, he slit the crotch of her panties, exposing the soft black hair of her cunt. He did not touch it, but kneeled, sucking his breath in and out and staring at the cleft in her. She grew faint with naked terror.

Not touching her cunt, he took his heavy penis in both hands, and lowering his body, with one thrust he rammed inside her. She screamed with pain, but his hand was ready on her mouth, not letting any of the pain out… keeping it locked in her cunt. She felt him scraping the bleeding wound in her.

" You' re dry baby – bone dry. Ain' t you having fun? I' m having fun. You got the tightest cunt I ever been in. Tight cunt, sucking me in. Tight- cunted bitch."

Her body from the waist down was writhing with pain. He put his hands beneath her hips, and she felt his fingers digging into her ass. They found the hidden hole and two fingers crushed mercilessly into it. He reamed her with them, stretching her anus until she thought the tender membranes would split. Her body was trapped and full with him. No out, no freedom for her body, stuffed and imprisoned with his intrusive prick and fingers.

Then, miraculously, a great heat and throbbing started under her heart and moved to meet his raging penis. She burned with humiliation. Was this desire? This crazy itch and burning in her cunt? His penis rubbed against her taut clitoris and when every nerve in her body was stretched like wire, and her thighs felt aflame, all the restraints in her body let go and she felt the pendulum throb in her cunt. It was like a ballooning of her inner flesh, like a fish' s mouth. Open… close… open… close… she felt herself losing consciousness. Her pussy oozed its unspent juices, smoothing the passage of the piston between her thighs. She felt it grow even more huge, as if it were a balloon inflated to the bursting point. Then that humongous cock began to jerk and spasm as it erupted a flood of burning sperm.

She lay still, not wanting ever to move again. But he was up on his feet, more cruel than when he had thrown her to the floor.

" Get up, you bitch," he ordered. " Button my pants." She got to her knees, her head level with his softening prick. " Put it in and button me up." She fought a desire to stroke the velvety head.

" Put it in, bitch."

She pressed his prick between his thighs, and numbly kneeling before him, began to button his pants. They were both silent. She lifted her head to his white eyes.

" Come upstairs to my apartment," she begged.

He laughed into her face. " I got what I wanted, virgin. Ask your uptown friends to carry on."

But she knew that only this man with the white eyes could bring all the fluids of her body pulsing hot to her cunt.

" Don' t leave me," she implored. " Don' t leave me to die."

He pushed her head away from his covered prick. " I got what I wanted, cunt. Now try fucking the Eiffel Tower." And he kicked her away from him and sauntered out of the hall.

She put her face against the tile floor and started to sob while relentless need gnawed at her body. " Come back," she cried against the tiles.

She lay for almost an hour, hoping she would hear him turn the knob of the door. Then, knowing he was gone for the night, maybe forever, she dragged her body up the stairs.

Gloria turned the lamp on over the bed. She fell across the mattress, dazed. Her feet, their shoes still on, touched the floor. She lay still, knowing that the last half- hour had made her a slave to a pair of white eyes. As the image of his eyes floated into her blackened mind, she felt the urgency throb in her cunt. She moved her hand to the slit pants, and pressed cold fingers against the inside of her cunt. It was wet there. She pulled the fingers before her face and saw that they were covered with blood. Like a child, she thrust her fingers in her mouth, sucking them, hoping to get a taste of him mixed with the blood. The mustiness of his sperm made her dizzy with excitement. Her fingers slid back to her cunt. Up and down they moved against the small, hard pit of her clitoris. Up and down, deadening her insides with her hungry desire. Up and down, and harder and harder, till she was hurting herself as he had. At last she felt the flow of sensation that he had given her, but weaker, much weaker than the dawning she had known with him. She gasped with frustration and the tension of near- orgasm, and fell into a restless sleep.

CHAPTER II

The next morning, a persistent ringing in the room brought her swimming out of a dream in which she had been floating in a pool, flat on her back, her belly facing the sky and swelling, swelling like a carnival balloon until she thought she would burst. Her eyes wandered to the diving board. There, poised as though he would fly rather than dive, was her father. He laughed with his white eyes, and started to float toward her distended belly. She shrieked, and woke up, her screams competing with the blasting of the telephone.

" Yes, yes, yes," she called, as though it were the telephone, not a person soundlessly far from her room, urging her to respond. " Yes," she muttered, and pulled her bruised hips around. She reached out and picked up the receiver. Almost before she could speak, a husky voice said, " Gloria, is that you baby?"

" Yes," she said blindly, still not fully conscious.

" Look, baby, this is me, Paul. Darling, I didn' t sleep all night. I' m so sorry about yesterday. Look, I just had a bit too much to drink. I' m sorry. Are you there?"

" Yes," she answered wearily. Paul and the things he had said, she thought disconnectedly. What was it he said yesterday? What happened with him yesterday? She couldn' t remember. Only something had happened after Paul. What was it? And then the white eyes floated out of her dreams, gripping her stomach, and she was completely, shockingly awake.

" It' s okay, Paul. Really. I guess I deserved what you said."

" No, Gloria. Look, I' m just a conceited ass. If a girl doesn' t sleep with me, I make a whole case study out of it."

She pictured Paul' s dark, gentle eyes, and his fine soft hands.

" A girl should want to sleep with you," she said. " If she doesn' t, then she probably does have a screw missing someplace." And she thought, My God, I really got my screws bolted in place last night. No more loose screws. Except now I' m one big loosened screw. All of me, so no one can hear the rattling.

" Gloria, baby, are you there? Can we just forget about last night? I promise, I won' t say another word about us… I mean that way. It' s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, the winter chill is off. Let' s drive up to Westchester and have some lobster in the Rye Inn."

" That would be great," she said. " Get me out of the city today."

" Gloria, you' re an angel. I don' t think there' s another girl who' d forgive me for last night. I don' t know what got into my head."

Sense, she thought. Last night was the first time you ever sounded like a man… the first time you ever made me feel like a woman. She shook her head, Christ, do I have to be beaten and bullied into being a woman? Well then, beat me, bully me, I have to live. For the first time I want to live.

" I' ll pick you up in an hour. Is that okay?"

" What time is it now Paul? Ten o' clock? Good. Come over for coffee and eggs at eleven, and by twelve we' ll be on our way."

" Great," he said, his voice relaxed and relieved. The husky whisper of the first few seconds of conversation had evaporated. " I' ll pick up some cheese Danish and we' ll have a picnic. I love you, Gloria. I love you even if I am a stupid ass."

Too bad for me. Too bad the stupid asses go for me. And they admit it, too. The stupid asses are always very honest. I wonder if we can make a deal. I turn him into a man and he pays back by turning me into a woman. No, the only thing he could turn me into is a cow – a big, fat, contented, cud- chewing- in- the- green- fields cow.

" In an hour then, baby," Paul sang.

" I' ll be waiting for you," she answered.

When she hung up the phone, she was dreadfully alone again. And she realized that she was afraid. She pulled herself off the bed and kicked off the shoes she had worn all night. Her toes felt stiff and cold. She walked to the window and rolled the bamboo blind up. The windows were dirty on the outside, the way New York windows always were because you weren' t allowed to sit out on the sill and wash them, the way you could in Kansas City. In Kansas City, you lived in a house that had two floors. Two floors of a wooden house, and the windows always glistening and clean. Her eyes filled with hopeless tears. Here she lived on the fourth floor. A wonderful studio with all the light she needed to paint. Of course, artists didn' t really need light anymore, doing their crazy patterns of color. The artists didn' t go out into the sun the way Cezanne had. It didn' t matter how a tree looked with the sun coming through the leaves. Artists were city dwellers now, painting sunless images in sunless rooms.

She opened the window and looked up and down the quiet brownstonelined street. Down below, a car was parked badly. Two girls with short hair and tight jeans passed, touching in their walk and dress and faces that told the world that they were in love… that at night they gripped each other' s short- cropped heads and dug into each other' s hidden sex. They had looks of frozen, corrupted purity.

Small fenced- in trees lined the street. A skinny man with corduroy pants passed, carrying a canvas under his arm. Another sunless artist. Then a hurried young man wearing horn- rimmed glasses, scurrying like the rabbit inAlice in Wonderland, rushed by balancing thick books against his tweed coat. Gloria laughed. Boy oh boy, you' d better read fast. You' ve got lots to learn, my bright young man. Hurry, or you' ll die before you finish St. John' s list of classics.

We' re all insane, reading and painting and blowing tunes. And all the time we want a thick- tongued maniac to grab us in a dark hallway and jam sex into us. All the money I wasted on paint and canvas and school. All the time I was just a cunt. An unused cunt. Those are the biggest cunts of all. Cunts as big as our heads.

She closed the window, suddenly afraid again to be alone in the room. I wonder if he knows my name? I wonder if he' ll look me up in the book and come back? But I must forget about him. I must forget and go on living.

She walked into the bathroom, the pale eyes invisibly following her. She leaned over the bathtub, the gesture bringing a throb of pain to her temples. She turned the hot water tap; soon smoke and splashing water filled the tub.

She walked out into the small kitchen and filled a kettle with water. She set the kettle on the stove and turned the automatic gas jet. A flame shot up and she jumped back, suddenly realizing that she was standing in her kitchen, staring transfixed at the white eyes in the pattern of spots and cracks on the wall. Oh God, I' m trapped. I' m trapped.

Gloria wandered into her studio… the main room of her top floor apartment. The walls were covered with her paintings. An unfinished canvas hung on the wall between the two windows. Her canvasses were too large for her to use an easel. She painted by dipping into brilliantly hued buckets of paint and splashing her frustration and confusion across the white canvas. All the colors of her life leaped at her from the walls and she felt surrounded by mute enemies. She fell across the sofa in the middle of the room. It was covered with an Indian throw. Tiny flowers and men on camels marched along the border of the couch. She reached over to the coffee table that she had made out of wrought iron legs and an old mahogany kitchen table. The first cigarette of the day tasted like blood in her mouth. She smashed it out in her Mexican pottery ashtray and went back into the kitchen. She poured the boiling water through a drip coffeepot and poured a full cup of black steaming coffee. She brought the cup into the bathroom, putting it down on the closed toilet seat and unzipping her black dress. The rapist, the white- eyed devil, hadn' t bothered to take her dress off. Just pulled it above her knees. Didn' t care that she had full, nipple tipped breasts. Didn' t care that her white back exposed the long slim line of her spine. Didn' t care that the musk of her body lay hidden in her armpits, that her hips curved out from a smallsculpted waist. Only wanted to get to her cunt. No other part of her existed for him. Not her head, or her heart, or her round, throbbing, blue- veined breasts. Only one place his prick wanted to go… only one thing he cared about, his prick. His prick and her cunt and they could fly to the moon.

She lowered herself into the tub and the water turned pink with her clotted blood. She grew faint. The water rushed into her cunt, settling hot in her moss- covered cavity. It brought the memory of him back to her with painful immediacy. I must find him. He' s got to come back to me. Does every vagina feel the same to him? Didn' t he feel, inside me, that he' d come home? Will he want another woman tomorrow? Is he with another woman now, shoving his magnificent prick into her pink, hot flesh? The thought brought tears of rage and jealousy to her eyes.

She took a soft sponge and soaped her body – her thighs, and the blood coating them, her slightly muscled calves, her arms and breasts, and her tear- stained face. Her body felt the prickly sensation he had left in it. A blind glutting desire. She remembered the Greek fable about Io. Io had wandered between heaven and earth, a gnat biting at her, leaving her no peace… torturing her with its persistency.

I' m just as damned. He' s left a scar in my cunt. An itching, burning scar. And only his prick can heal it. He' s got to come back to me. He can' t leave me to wander the earth like Io. She started to cry.

But I' m an artist. I' ve won a drawer full of prizes. I' ve been shown in the Whitney exhibition. He can' t have ruined me. He can' t have left me with nothing to live for but his enormous cock. Just thinking of the rigid boned flesh that had jutted from beneath his hard stomach made her tremble with excitement. I' m lost… lost.

She pulled herself out of the tub and dried her body with the big Cannon towel. She wiped herself gently, with rhythmic concern. When she put the towel between her legs, her thighs pulled tightly together, as if her secret need had its own secret will. Her fingers wandered to her hot vagina. She separated the taut lips with her fingertips, exploring the smooth inner membranes that were the color of conch. She felt the throbbing clitoris. It jumped at her heated prodding. " I can' t," she murmured. She knew that if she flung herself across the bed and induced her own pulsating orgasm, she would be left with a hotter desire. Only the white eyes could save her. She walked into her bedroom, feeling the cruel urge between her legs. Her eyes reflected torture. I' m going crazy. I am crazy.

The green tweed suit, the fawn cashmere sweater, the thick handcrafted belt, the mascara, powder and lipstick, the stockings, garters and thin- heeled shoes were all draped and painted expertly on her when the doorbell buzzed. Only the urgent itch inside of her didn' t change with her cool, fresh- looking exterior. Her secret, hot, hidden desire laughed at her allegiance to civilization. She could put on fourteen sweaters and twenty- two strings of beads, and she' d still be naked and hungry inside.

She opened the door gaily for Paul. " All is forgiven," she announced before he could speak, fearing a drawn- out apology. " Let' s just forget it and not even mention it again. Especially today."

He put a bouquet of tulips and lilacs into her hands, and dared to kiss her timorously.

" You look beautiful," he said, his eyes admiring her fine shoulder- length black hair, cut in straight bangs across her forehead. Her mouth was painted a fashionable orange.

" You are the coolest lady in New York," he said.

Very cool, she thought, even as the furnace raged in her groin.

" Well, let' s scramble the eggs. I' m starving. Something about not sleeping all night must give you more time to be hungry."

She was afraid he' d apologize again. " You should have taken a pill. It' s too much of a bore to toss all night."

He followed her lead. " Next time I don' t sleep, I will. But," he slipped in an oblique apology, " if it' s for the same reason, I' ll just blow my brains out."

Brains, she thought with contempt. Who gives a fuck about his brains?

Gloria pulled eggs, butter, bacon and cream out of the small refrigerator next to the stove and oven. She took a bowl from the cupboard and cracked four eggs into it. Beating them, she felt almost normal. Paul powdered salt and pepper into the bowl.

" You always forget the spice, honey."

She laughed. " I don' t believe in spice."

He put his arm around her. " Is it really hopeless for me?"

" Is what hopeless?"

" Am I going to love you all my life as if you' re a distant statue, a marble goddess?"

" Why not? I am a goddess, you know. I' m Io. Ever met her?"

" No," he said, sensing the desperation behind the humor.

" Io is the only goddess who had an itch. A real terrific itch."

He didn' t answer her.

" This itch," she continued, " drove Io all over the damn earth – across the Caucasus, to the shores of Exxine, across the Macotic Strait, into the arms of the Amazons, out of Europe, to the continent of Asia…" Her voice droned on incoherently.

Paul took her by both shoulders and shook her gently. " Baby, what' s got you? You sound miserable. Really beat."

" It' s nothing, Paul. Nothing. I' ve just got a long trip in front of me, that' s all." Then suddenly, and inexplicably for him, she said, " Have you ever seen a man with white eyes?"

He answered her tone instead of her words. " Maybe you' d better lie down for a few minutes, Gloria. I' ll bring the breakfast in when it' s finished. You' ve got deep shadows under your eyes. Honey, if you don' t feel well, if I hurt you more last night than you' ll admit, we don' t have to go anywhere. There' s a Mozart concert on WQXR. We can just sit here and listen to it. Then we can have an early dinner and make a short day of it."

" Yes," she said, feeling dizzy with the need inside her. " I' ll lie down, but don' t try to get out of that drive to Westchester. It' s just what I need for my artistic nerves."

She kicked off her shoes and stretched lengthwise across the bed. In fifteen minutes, Paul was beside her with a full breakfast tray – coffee, toast, bacon, soft scrambled eggs, and a gorgeous cheese Danish. He put the tray on her night table and sat on the bed beside her.

" Can you tell me what' s wrong?"

" Nothing is wrong. I just didn' t sleep too well. I' m a bit tired. Maybe a little manic, or depressed. Darling, do you think I' m a manic- depressive?"

Paul placed his hand on her back. She wanted to grab it and shove it between her legs.

" What I said last night really upset you Gloria. I' m a pig to speak to a sensitive girl like that."

" It was true yesterday, Paul," she said, looking into his gentle eyes with a mixture of loathing and insatiable desire. " But it' s not true today."

" What do you mean?" he said, his voice hopeful.

" I mean last night I was a frigid bitch. And rotten to you."

His disappointment showed in his voice. " Oh."

" But today," she reawakened his hope, " I' m not frigid."

" Gloria, what are you saying?"

" Make love to me. Make love to me now."

" Baby," he implored, almost killing her desire with his comically serious face, " I didn' t mean what I said yesterday. I want you. Oh God, how I want you. But only when you' re ready."

" I' m ready, Paul. I' m ready. Do I have to get down on my knees and… and… unzip your pants?"

There was a shocked silence. Paul winced. He was used to the ceremony, the eager asking and the grudging permission before he made love. He was not prepared for this dry, toneless command. Sex was a game for him, played in a very prescribed way.

" Have something to eat first," he hesitated to regain his composure. Sure he' d fuck her, but she had to play the game.

In frustrated rage, Gloria picked up the parsley- sprinkled eggs and flung them across the room. They fell in a disgustingly mushy yellow heap. " Fuck me!" she screamed. " Fuck me for chrissake! You do know how? You have a prick, don' t you?"

His face grew black with rage and fear. His anger aroused him until Gloria saw a bulge swell in his pants. Eagerly she labored with his belt buckle and unzipped his sober pinstriped trousers and found his prick decorously pressed against his left leg. He wore Brooks Brothers pink underpants. She reached into the slit in his shorts and freed the stiff, hot flesh. It stood wondrously firm before her eyes. The head was wide and hot and throbbing. She caressed the entire veined shaft, not seeing Paul' s eager frightened face above her. She saw nothing but his taut rod, and felt nothing but the draining emptiness inside of her. She put her mouth eagerly against the cap of his prick and sucked it with long intakes of breath. She swirled her tongue around the velvet helmet, then ran it down the length of his lance. She licked around the base, sucking his balls into her mouth one at a time. She worked back up to the head, pausing only a second before swallowing the entire cock, burying it in her throat until her nose brushed the thick hair at his root. She felt his legs tremble and released him. " Put it in me Paul; put it in me quick."

He was silent with tension. " Take off your clothes," he commanded.

" No, no," she screamed. " No time! Just ram it in me."

He ripped at her cashmere sweater, pulling it up around her neck and pushing her methodical head away from his prick at the same time. He tugged at the pink brassiere beneath the sweater, but his nervous fingers couldn' t find the hooks. Instead, he pulled it up so that it cut her under the arms. At last, his mouth found her taut nipples. She felt a shiver of hot lust as his tongue wandered over them.

" They' re stiff like your prick. I have two pricks." Then she pulled his head away from her because the need to have him inside of her was becoming unbearable.

" Fuck me, Paul," she pleaded looking at his gentle, dark eyes. They brought him humanly close to her and she felt her body grow chill. " Close your eyes. Don' t look at me, just fuck."

" Gloria," he implored. " Gloria."

She knew his humanizing of it had killed it for her. Her nipples grew soft. She lowered her hand to touch his prick. It was still stiff, and he was breathing hard. But it was not the thick, cruel prick of last night' s lover. This one felt hard and thin, hopelessly thin to her touch. Disgusted, she turned on her side. And at that moment, from behind her, Paul' s prick found its way between her legs and into the hot cavity of her desire. She thought it was too late, but his firm cock, moving in and out of her with a crazy, excited rhythm, was suddenly filling her with fire. Maybe? She pressed hard against him.

She grew dizzy with the intensity of her need.

" Harder, Paul harder. Give it to me! Give me a prick of hate, not of love! Give me a prick of hate!"

Her throaty, insane demand freed Paul' s orgasm. It rushed trembling all the way from his shoulders, throbbing down his breast and stomach and groin and emptied groaning into her cunt.

" Not yet," she spat in fury. " I need more! Fuck me! Fuck me!" She continued to thrust her hips against him, fighting to regain the sensation.

But Paul had grown soft inside her. She pulled away from him, her cunt wet with his sperm and the soothing liquids that had started to flow in her. She picked up his lax cock and balanced it in her palm. " I could crush it, you weak bastard. I hate you." She burst into tears of frustration, her fingers pinching her hungry clitoris.

" You' re crazy," Paul hissed. But he lowered his head to her cunt, and pushed her hand away. " Let me," he said gently.

He covered her emptiness with his mouth. She leaned her head against the pillow and thought, as long as he doesn' t take his mouth away, I can live. His tongue was inside her, gently licking her enraged clit. She felt a trembling, exhausted calm. She touched his dark head. " Thank you, darling," she said weakly. " Thank you." But even while sobbing her thanks… even as his tongue and teeth in her cunt calmed her insatiable need… she knew it would not bring the blasting, blinding release she had known under the stairs. It took a cock of contempt to do that. She felt as though a slave was salving her hot, tired insides.

She arched her body sensuously against him. But it would take a master to cut the chords of her nerves. At the urgings of his mouth, she felt the liquids flow gently down her body. The slow, tenuous pulsations of the orgasm began. Cheated and relaxed. Fulfilled, and yet hungrier from the entranced, controlled throbbing of her cunt, she lay back among the pillows and tasted her tears.

CHAPTER III

Paul put his head on the pillow next to hers. His face had a look of mortification mixed with pain. After months of gentle cultivation, he was shocked to discover this aggressive madwoman. Was she always repressing this abandoned sexuality? Or had his patient courting driven her to frenzied carnality? Maybe there was another man. His face contorted with jealousy.

They lay next to each other, not touching, in heavy silence. He thought she was sleeping, but when he looked over at her, he found her lying flat on her back, her eyes opened wide to the ceiling. She had an expression of entranced agony.

" Gloria," he said. " Gloria, what is it?"

Her face showed she had not heard him. He leaned over and took her shoulders, feeling her shudder.

" Gloria, are you sick?"

She turned on him, repeating his question mockingly. " Am I sick?"

" I can' t tell," he said hopelessly, " if you love or hate me."

" Neither," she sighed. " You don' t even exist for me, really." She turned heavy, feverish eyes on him.

" I do know I would never want to make love again like we just did. I guess I' m rather old- fashioned, but I like to lead the woman. I don' t like to feel drawn up into her emotion."

" I guess you are old- fashioned," she agreed with distant disinterest.

" I think," he countered, " that you' ll find most men are like me."

She laughed hollowly. " Then maybe I will take your suggestion of yesterday. Maybe I will try women."

His face grew grim with the insult. A woman had never rejected him with such scrupulous and utter detachment.

" What you want is some kind of animal fury. Not love."

" No, I just want you to kill the bug in me."

He got up on his elbows and looked down at her breasts. The sweater and brassiere still pulled below her armpits. Her breasts were forced into taunt points by the pressure above, the nipples erect and pebble- hard. He felt the blood rushing to his penis, pressing it authoritatively through the slit in his drawers. He was horrified that his body desired this crude woman. He pressed his penis up against his leg, zipping his pants with nervous speed. Gloria watched with a smile on her face.

" Don' t worry, Paul," she giggled contemptuously. " You won' t get in me again. You don' t even get near my bug. You don' t even flutter its wings."

" What are you talking about?" he said, embarrassed that she had seen his fear. " You talk like there' s a mosquito eating at your…"

" Cunt? Pussy? Snatch?" she laughed again.

" Gloria!"

" That' s all it is," she screamed. " Stop reading your fancy psychology books. Stop turning women into goddamn monuments or the Virgin Mary. There' s only one Virgin Mary, and she had a mighty rough time. I don' t want God in my cunt. I just want a man. Are there any? Do you know any?" The white eyes floated before her and laughed into her blood- clotted face.

" I think," said Paul, " that you should see an analyst."

" Great, " she answered. " Do you know of one with white eyes?"

" What are you talking about?"

" I want an analyst with white eyes. I want him to fuck me back to sanity."

He leaned to look closely at her and his chest brushed the protruding breasts. Again his penis urgently pressed against his pants. Then his tongue was searching her closed, cool lips.

" Let me, " he cried. " What difference can it make to you?"

Gloria pulled her head back and said, " Try, just try to be a man for me."

" Yes, yes," he said, not hearing the accusation in her voice. " Let me try."

He pulled the sweater over her head. His fumbling fingers caught the snap on her brassiere and pulled the restraining cloth away from her mounds. He ran his hands eagerly over her soft, warm tits, pinching the nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He didn' t dare look at her face. With a grunt, he pressed his mouth against the stiff pink knobs at the tip of her tits. He sucked at the pinpoint hole in her nipples, trying to drain milk from the breasts that had never suckled.

" You darling; you darling," he murmured against her softness, each sound and breath giving the warm breasts new sensations.

Then he levered himself up and stuck his cock eagerly between the valley of her tits. The channel was dry and he crushed the mounds of flesh tight against his shaft, feeling the pulsation, the separate heartbeat. His penis expanded, fatter and stiffer, pressed against her woman' s body. And still she didn' t move.

Blind with the heavy, throbbing need of his prick, he reached his hand under her skirt, pulling at the garters and fragile stockings. He lifted her body half into the air, and clumsily hauled the panties and stockings off in one long silky piece. He slid her skirt off last. Gloria lay flat on the bed, completely, ravishingly naked. He got on his knees beside her and ran his fingers up her delicate ankles, her thighs, her hips, her fragile waist. His tongue followed his fingers, tasting her cunt, her breasts, her belly, the fleshy inside of her thighs. He crushed himself against her smooth stomach to relieve the tormented steel rod growing out of him. He rubbed helplessly against her cool skin. Up and down, up and down, until he heard her even breath grow rapid and gasping. Only then did he look into her eyes, seeing them glitter at him from a terrible depth. Her mouth was closed, and she looked nearly unconscious with her beautiful head crushed into the pillow.

" I love you. I love you. I love you," he groaned, tenderness mixing ecstatically with his fierce love- hungry prick. Her eyes looked back at him with pure hate, turning his stomach cold. With rage and frustration, he pulled her passive legs apart, and rushed his blood- heavy prick into her pink and sensitive flesh.

Her pussy was almost dry, and its unconscious resistance to his penis made him grow harder and more enraged. He tore into her, forgetting the woman or thing beneath him. He knew only that he was dying in his tortured cock, and that the hot elastic channel of inner flesh was giving him back his life. He ground up and down, in and out of this hot path, hypnotized by the rhythm of his desire.

He clutched at her shoulder and whispered into her ear to the cascading of her body, " I love you. I am helpless in you. Love me."

Then he felt the passion imprisoned in his prick rush forward for freedom. From his muscled thighs, his knotted stomach, his prick grew rigid and leaden, and when it had to break from its own weight, it shot sperm deep inside her in convulsive spurts.

He fell exhausted against the pillow, his face mixing with her perfumed black hair.

" Darling. My darling," he gasped, catching his breath, his body buzzing into normalcy. But when he looked down at her face, he saw her eyes were cold.

" Leave now," she whispered, her voice dead.

" Gloria, my darling," he almost wept.

" Leave now, or I will kill you," she repeated.

Her white face wanted him dead.

He got up from the bed, zipping his trousers.

He bent to speak to her… to plead for communication, for time. And he heard her say, in a trancelike voice, " Leave quickly, Paul, or I promise I' ll kill you."

CHAPTER IV

What was the point of going outside, when everything you wanted was inside? Gloria lay on the bed for hours after Paul left, waiting. Waiting for the sounds in the hallway. Waiting for her rapist' s footsteps. For a tap on the window, a scrape on the door. Waiting and not waiting. For there was no longer a reason to move.

I wouldn' t want him to speak to me, she thought. I never want to hear his voice. I wouldn' t even open my eyes. If only I could just stay here in the bed, stretched out naked and eager, and he would come in with his prick already stiff, and thrust it into me without touching my body, or even wanting me. If we could only have that between us, his fat cock in me, and not a word. And I wouldn' t want to know his name, or where he comes from, or the women he goes to after me.

I' d give him money, I' d feed him. He could sleep here, even not with me. If he could just get in me, rub me into life when it gets dark and hot in this room. Maybe he' s literary and I can sneak an ad into the Saturday Review – Girl on West 10th Street hunting for rare edition of obscure Scandinavian poem called, " Under the Stairway." Or Girl on West 10th Street lost first volume, looking for second volume of " The Quiet Party." Oh God, I' ll never find him and my cunt will rot in me. I' d like to kill him. I will. I' ll find him and I' ll kill him. Maybe an ad in the Villager. Girl on West l0th Street wants furnace stoked. Probably he can' t read. Can' t do anything but fuck, that' s why he' s so good at it. It doesn' t hurt me so much inside if I think of him. Maybe it' ll relieve my pain if I think of him and keep my fingers here against my clitoris. That' s a little better. I can' t stop doing it to myself. I' ll have to sit in art class with one hand stuck between my legs, and go to the movies and pinch this pit in me. It' s so small, so small… why should I feel it in my whole body? Why can I feel it in my toes and belly? Why do my nipples harden and my breasts swell when I touch it like this? I wish I could reach my cunt with my mouth. I could lie in bed like a cat with my tongue stuck in me. Probably I can buy something that feels like a mouth, or train a dog or a cat, a cat' s tongue is rough, or a horse or an elephant to suck me. Oh God, I' m coming. I' m coming. All alone. I don' t need him. I don' t need anyone. Coming in a flood. God help me, it' s worse. It' s hotter than before. Where is he? I' ve got a hot river inside me. Was there poison in his sperm, or some chemical that drives me crazy. He' s the devil… that' s why they warn us about the devil. He' s got a tail with a hook on the end of it. He' s scraped out all my sanity… I must take my fingers away. I must get dressed, and live. I' m caught. Trapped in my own cunt, and I can' t let myself out.

Somehow the sun set. It did so with the same rhythm it had all the other days of her life, suggesting that some people had gone to sleep the night before, and awakened for breakfast, and walked until lunch, and sat in the movies until dinner, and had two drinks at eight, and gone to bed at eleven. She wondered if she would ever sleep again, create again, or laugh, or sit in the theatre, or play the Mozart records that she had jealously collected.

Gloria turned on the bed and felt her hot face against the pillows. No, she was all right now… it was just one day of delirium. Some girls lost their virginity hard, and she was glad to be done with hers. If you ever did truly lose your virginity. If you ever did stop being a virgin for the first man who fucked you. He had fucked her. Not made love to her, or caressed her into womanliness. Paul had made love to her. She could not remember him very clearly. He was a prick without personality. And she thought of looking for faces in a penis, the way one looks for the face of the man in the moon. In subways, you tried to picture the faces hidden in men' s pants. Vaginas had no faces.

The phone rang abusively. That was the second time that day. The only two moments of sound she remembered. Was it him? That it might be was her only reason for moving from the bed, and her hips rolled to reach the receiver.

" Hello."

" Hi Gloria. It' s Janet."

" How are you?"

" A little bored. Would you like to go to the Art? They have a new Italian film about some beauty who doesn' t wear any makeup or underwear."

" No thanks, Janet, I have some work to do tonight."

" Work!"

" Maybe we can go tomorrow if it' s still playing."

" Gloria, you sound funny. Far away."

" I' m right here. I just feel a little introverted today."

" I told you to see my analyst. He' s wonderful. He says that if you feel introverted, be introverted. Just enjoy it."

" I am enjoying it."

" Oh, you don' t sound it."

" I am. I' ve been playing with myself all day. What does he say about masturbation after the age of consent?"

" Gloria!"

" That' s the way to beat introversion. Just climb inside yourself with your thumb and index finger."

" Don' t be disgusting."

" I agree. It would be better if you could reach yourself with your tongue. Cleaner too."

" Gloria, are you drunk?"

" No!" She wanted to scream at the girl' s cool, empty, analytical voice. " I' m just hot. Can you understand that? Have you ever been hot? Do you ever want your darling analyst to come over to the couch and say, ' Move over?'"

" I should say not," Janet sniffed. " You don' t understand anything about analysis. He' s like a father to me."

" Well then, didn' t you ever want your father to say ' move over?' To stick his big, thick cock in your tight pink pussy? I thought that was what the whole fuss was about."

" That' s perverted!"

" Look, Janet. Go see this Italian actress. Let her be hot for you."

" Well Gloria Hofstra! All I can say is that you' re a very sick girl!"

" I know. That' s all you ever say."

" Goodbye!"

" Janet, wait, wait a second. Janet, were you ever raped?"

" Certainly not. Rape is a masochistic fantasy. Only women who want to be raped get raped."

" Oh for God' s sake," Gloria said with exasperation. " Goodbye."

She moved out of the bed and saw the sloppy pile of clothes heaped on the floor. I should take a shower before I get dressed. I don' t want to feel all wet and then get dry and be clean, she thought incoherently. Entirely too much fuss about being clean. As if living is a sin and we wash off the traces of it every day.

She reached into the pile of clothes for her pants, and released the silk stockings from the garters. She pulled the silk panties up around her hips and felt the wetness of Paul' s sperm against her crotch and a little down her thighs. If only the wetness were from the rapist. His eyes had been like white milky sperm. Probably his whole body was filled with sperm up to the top of his head, and his prick was its only exit. So his whole body worked to explode in a woman.

Gloria fastened her bra blindly behind her back and slipped the coffee- colored sweater over her head. She stepped into striped gray and brown pants, tight around her belly and hips, and clinging to her rounded calves.

At least if I get out of the house, I' ll stop thinking about him. Maybe he' ll be in one of the bars. He might be along McDougal Street or Third Street. I' ll look in the coffee houses for him and the bookstores.

She walked down the four flights of stairs, stopping behind the stairway when she reached the bottom. There were a few spots of blood dried on the tiled floor. So ithad happened. She pushed the hall door open and felt the evening air against her face. She walked down 10th Street, heading towards Washington Square. Maybe he' ll be sitting in the circle, listening to the guitar players.

The park was alive with people. Young beautiful boys walked in pairs, their tightly blue jeaned legs outlining the curved space between their thighs and their bulging sex. Size was the absolute standard for gay boys. Size queens. And they so arrogantly pushed their ten inches of male- devoted pricks before them.

Walking at the side of the lovers, like precious children, muscled boxers and sleek Dalmatians sniffed at neighboring dogs. Even the dogs in Washington Square were faggots, sniffing with equal interest at male and female. One of the boys turned and looked at her and recognized her. His eyes were soft and pained like a poodle' s.

" Gloria, the most beautiful woman in New York."

" Hello, Jack."

" Honestly, honey, you make me want to go straight."

" Maybe we should try."

" Babycakes, set a date."

" Now, right here in the middle of the Circle in the Square."

" I don' t think Harry would forgive me."

" Bring Harry along. We' ll make a threesome."

" Gloria, I almost feel like forgiving you for being a woman. If you were a man, I could love you."

" You' re afraid once you get inside me I' d never let you out."

" My balls are too precious to share with a woman."

" Just think of yourself as a machine, a fucking machine that we use."

" Lovely."

" You know, nothing personal or involving about it."

" Jesus, baby. My jeans aren' t big enough for this kind of talk."

" They' re perfect," cooed Gloria." I like to know what effect I' m having."

" Look, darling, I' m game if you' d like to try. Threesomes really are a ball."

" Jack," she said, feeling the gnawing inside her that made the talking not a game, " I have to look for someone now. If I find him, he has preference. But stop by at 11 o' clock if my eyes aren' t good."

" Harry, too?"

" You know I wouldn' t leave Harry out of anything."

" Darling, he' ll be thrilled. You know, he used to make it with women, and every now and then, he thinks of them. It drives me mad. This might solve all my problems."

" Solve some of mine, Jack."

" What' s the matter, baby? You look as though your best friend fucked your other best friend."

" Just come at eleven. I wouldn' t be able to get through this night alone."

" Darling, I never knew you were so civilized."

She smiled grimly at him. " Do you know a man with white eyes?"

" White eyes? He sounds adorable. Can he come too?"

" If he comes, it' s a party for two."

" Oh, you mean he has characteristics other than white eyes."

" Yes. He has a beautiful huge cock."

" Gloria, please! I' m only gay… not perverted like other people."

" See you at eleven, Jack."

" With bells on."

" That' s original."

" Darling, you' ll clang."

" Eleven."

She watched his slim hips saunter away, so eager to deliver the surprising news to Harry. She thought of Harry' s sleek body. Oh God, if only they could help her. Harry had been a football star at Wisconsin. He had thick muscled thighs. That she had seen at Fire Island the summer before. The boys looked at him with hot awe, and this was Jack' s season. She hoped he had a big prick.

Gloria turned her head and looked at the couples – old ladies and turtle- necked aesthetes sitting on benches. Their voices droned on

… " Nothing' s been written since Harry James…"… " Joyce was the end of the novel"… " So I said to him, I' m no easy lay"… " I mean he' s a bore, and compulsively clean. Always picking things up after me." But no white eyes and no thick, cruel voice saying, " Just a quiet party."

She crossed the lane, stopping over the cement steps of the Circle in the Square. Some unshaven intellects were playing the guitar and singing Harry Chapin songs. They seemed contented and complete.

She sat and listened to them, feeling the empty space between her legs. She remembered the moment when he had pulled her paralyzed legs around his hips and his cock had been rigid before him. At least I excited him. He had wanted her desperately at that moment. He would have killed her had she resisted, and taken her dead. I would have felt it even if I were dead. Her tight cunt had tried to keep him out, but he had ripped into her, not feeling the impotent resistance of her flesh. Maybe I' m the first virgin he' s ever had. Maybe he' ll remember me. Maybe I' m a special lay, and my cunt throbs in a way no man has ever experienced. But he had left. With cold disdain. He had left with what he' d come for. Why hadn' t he wanted more? Why could men be satisfied and be left whole and separate? Why couldn' t they leave a part of their prick in you, and screw you viciously every night and morning to get it back? Why couldn' t one woman' s cunt be a maddening mystery to them? To keep them kneeling forever before you. They got on their knees like slaves, but got up like masters. As if they resented their need to fuck, and walked away free, till the sperm collected in them once again. What a lousy joke. What a miserable riddle, that they resented their need. And most resented having it satisfied. Yes, they called professional virgins cockteasers… but atease was the best part of their game. And a woman didn' t feel like that. Once a cock got in her – a big comfortable maddening one – she never wanted to let it out. It was like getting back a missing piece. Maybe women can do something to each other, since they all share the same defeat. I' ll try women if I don' t find him. I' ll try anything. There' s only one thing I want more than him in me – I want him dead. I must have my victory to live again. I' ll find him. I' ll kill him in me. So he can have his last gasping orgasm in me. An orgasm to last him for eternity. And he' ll lie in his grave with all the sperm shot out of him, finished.

Gloria stepped across the cement barrier and walked toward McDougal Street. He might be in El Remo, sitting with the junkies and asking if anyone knew where to get some pot. Conrad or Maurice may recognize him if I describe him. They know everybody who steps below Fourteenth Street. He' s as good as dead. I' ll buy a knife and keep it in my bag. I' ll exchange knives with him. See which cuts deeper.

El Remo was ablaze with lights. The jukebox was trembling with Ella Fitzgerald' s pained voice; its bright fluorescent lights bubbled in changing colors. Three boys leaned against the jukebox, worshipping the distant voice coming out of it.

Gloria pushed hard toward the bar. Everyone was balancing bottles of beer in one hand and a half- filled glass in the other. A beer could last all night. An uptown couple, the boy in Madison Avenue gray and the girl in an English tweed suit, were drinking martinis. A wandering artist offered to draw the girl' s portrait. For a beer, for the pleasure of studying that cool face. The boy said, " No thanks." No one was going to take him in. The girl, out of habit, out of confusion about who she was, flirted with the shabby demented artist. Girls like that had to see the same look in every man' s eyes. She was lovely and safe and arrogant and stupid and empty. A refrigerated cunt

… an automatic ice cube machine. The cooler they are, the harder they fall. Maybe ice cubes feel good against a prick. Soothing, like alcohol against a fevered brow. Lovely. All we have to do is freeze and we can live forever.

The girl looked at her, and her eyes gleamed with competition. She' s capable of a less aloof expression. But a man never sees it. They have no idea who she is. I know in a glance. We' re sisters. We' re both losing the game. But she doesn' t know that there' s no way to win. All you can do is not play. I guess she thinks she' s smart. But her score is blank. Mine was blank yesterday morning. I wish I could wipe it clean again. I' ll kill him. That' s how I' ll keep score; I' ll cheat.

Before she reached the bar, she saw Jules sitting half drunk in a booth. He had a dish of cold spaghetti in front of him. No one had ever seen him eat, and the bones in his face gave him a stark dramatic look. He caught her eyes.

" Gloria, out at this hour… come have a beer." That meant sit with him, but pay for your own.

" Have you seen Maurice or Conrad?"

" They' re trying to round up some pot," he slurred. " We' re going to have a party if they score."

" Any chance of scoring?"

" Yeah. There' s this guy who just arrived from Mexico. If he doesn' t have marijuana, he' s sure to have something."

" Christ, Jules, you should never have left the church. You even look like a Jesuit."

" I never left the church. The church left me."

" Jules, do you know a man with white eyes?"

" I don' t know anyone."

" Jules, please, I' m serious. I must find him."

" Why? Did he admire one of your paintings? You should never let an enthusiastic critic go."

" He never saw my paintings."

" Lucky chap."

" Don' t be a bastard, Jules."

" No, Gloria. You' re good in the best decadent tradition."

" Mercy."

" The bourgeoisie gets more paint on canvas than ever before in history. It follows."

" You don' t know anyone with white eyes?" she persisted. " He has a kind of a husky voice and a wide thin mouth, and he' s slim, wearing a black jacket, I think."

" He sounds like Hamlet."

" Help me," she said, and her eyes filling with tears.

Jules looked crestfallen. " Baby, what' s the matter? You know I' m not good when someone is depressed. I consider depression a personal assault on my male ego. If a woman is with me, she must be happy."

" Could you make me happy, Jules?"

" Well, I' ve always wanted to try."

" I think you' re going to get your chance."

" Hmm. Have you finished with that loser who drives a car as big as the Trump Tower?"

" Yes. I' m finished with him."

" I suddenly see something in your paintings that I never dreamed was there. Real feeling. Good old Bourgeoisie romantic feeling. Also, you look less like Joan of Arc every minute."

Conrad and Maurice pushed their way to the booth.

" Man, we scored. We scored. We blew some of this shit with this cat and it is too much. I am now in a heaven shared only by my erstwhile degenerate associate, Maurice le Clair. Come romp with me, you two earthbound people."

Jules' face lit up. His cheekbones glistened through his pale face. " Let' s go to my place."

" Gloria, are you coming?" asked Maurice

" Maurice, do you know a guy with white eyes?"

Jules shook his head with mock dismay. " The girl is a monomaniac. Maurice, do you know anyone who looks like Hamlet and has white eyes?"

" You are speaking," said Maurice, from his elevated high, " of my alter ego."

" Not to speak," added Conrad, " of the collected unconscious."

" You are both so educated, it pains me," said Jules, " right in my ass."

Gloria felt herself growing dizzy with the vacuum hidden in her. " Let' s go smoke some pot. I know I could use something."

Conrad smiled suggestively at her. " Between us, we have everything that you can possibly want."

" Ahh…" said Jules, " but have you got white eyes?"

" I' ll close my eyes and you can picture anything you want."

" But," said Jules, with his Jesuit precision, " there is a special attitude… a kind of white hot prick that goes with white eyes."

" I' ll match my prick against any man' s."

" Well, Gloria, you couldn' t have a more noble offer than that."

" Let' s go, Jules," she said. " They don' t allow fucking on the tables."

" Is this the dedicated artist of yesterday I see before me?" murmured Maurice.

" Look, do you want to smoke, or do you want to sit here and philosophize?"

" Psychologize, my dear."

" We are going," said Jules, seeing the frustrated fury in Gloria' s eyes, " to my apartment. From there, we are going to a land unknown to common man, or woman."

" It is fortunate that we are exceptional people."

They paid the bad- mannered waiter for Gloria' s beer and Jules' congealed spaghetti.

" The spaghetti was superb as always."

" The chef will faint with joy when I tell him," said the waiter with unreserved contempt.

" Shall we walk or taxi to heaven?" said Maurice.

" Let' s walk," said Jules. " The night air will cool our ardor."

" It won' t touch mine," said Gloria, with hopeless resignation.

" Your ardor isn' t supposed to cool. It' s supposed to mount as we wind our way to Horatio Street."

They turned up McDougal Alley and Gloria searched the bars as they passed. She walked between Conrad and Jules as they strolled past Sixth Avenue, then along store- lined Greenwich Avenue.

" Should we roll one now? This is an endless walk," groaned Maurice.

" No, let' s wait until we get to the house. The cops have learned how to smell tea."

They walked silently to the door of 92 Horatio Street. Jules stuck his key into the front door and they climbed the three flights of steps to his two room flat. He snapped on a lamp that cast a faint yellow glow over his couch. The room was otherwise dark, and the faint reds of a Modigliani nude glistened at them.

" Man, this is a cool place."

" My wife had excellent taste."

" Where is she now?"

" She ran off with a swimming instructor."

" Great taste."

" He swam like a bird."

" Let' s smoke like a fish."

Maurice took a discreet tin of aspirins out of his pocket. He flipped the lid open and a mound of greenish, brownish, yellowish tobacco curled in the box.

" Oh, what a beautiful sight. If only I could paint those spiritual weeds."

" Who' s got the paper?"

" Here, lad. Now roll."

Maurice separated a thin leaf of cigarette paper. He held it lovingly between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were the cunt of a fragile girl. He spilled the pot into the paper, and with his finger, leveled the tobacco. Then, with one more move, he twisted the paper into a perfect cylinder and passed his tongue over the edge.

" We are ready to fly."

Jules turned the phonograph on and the wailing of some nameless jazz singer put the room into deeper darkness. Conrad held a match to Maurice' s joint and Maurice gasped the fumes in. He took another drag and handed the cigarette to Gloria.

" Ladies second."

Her eyes opened wide as she took the offering. She prayed it would cool her cunt. Her heart and vagina thumped she pulled a deep drag into her lungs, holding the smoke till her chest ached. She made a sucking sound of gasped ecstasy. Lovely as a fuck. Her head grew heavy, and at the second puff, she looked up at the three men, who suddenly seemed far and strange.

" Oh man, I love to see lipstick on a roach," said Jules.

" Gives it class," added Maurice.

Conrad silently rolled another joint and Gloria let her shoes fall to the foot of the couch. She stretched out, put her head on Jules' thigh. The muscle in his trousers jumped and he ran his fingers through her hair. Someone passed Gloria another bone and she inhaled with sensuous pleasure, not noticing the heat in her chest… only the slow warm flow, deep in her cunt.

" Unbutton me, Jules," she murmured, " my pants are tight." He felt around her waist until he came to the button. He pulled it roughly and opened her snug pants. He started to take his hand away until she said, " No, don' t."

He pressed his palm against her smooth belly. " Gloria, what happened to you that obviously should have happened to you a long time ago?"

" None of your Jesuit questioning. Just be glad that I got my calling."

I' ve got to have him. I' ve got to have him. He' s known me so long, he may feel strange about fucking me. Like fucking a sister. But I' ve never known any of them really. I won' t know them till I' ve seen the face on their pricks and suck them dry. Oh God, what am I thinking? I want them to all fuck me. I wish they could all get in my cunt at once. I want them to push and come in me till they wipe out the imprint of his prick. I hope they fit tight and hard the way his did, so my flesh enfolds them like a flower. A man- eating flower.

Jules' hand suddenly twisted into her cunt hairs. He opened his fingers and cupped the raised, covered mound. One finger felt her pouting wetness. " Oh, baby, you got a mysterious cunt." His finger rubbed up and down against her stiffened clitoris. He moved his thumb in and pinched the naked mound. His fingers then moved faster and faster against and into her taut lips. She felt the muscles of her body expand, and her legs stretched apart. A cigarette was placed in her mouth and she pulled the smoke jealously into her.

" Shall Maurice and I cut?"

She heard Jules answer as if from a great distance. " I guess so. It looks like my night."

" No!" her voice sounded hollow. " No, stay. I want you all to get in me."

Jules' voice was angry. " When I finish with a girl, she doesn' t feel like screwing anyone else."

" Well, let' s wait and see, darling. If I don' t feel like fucking anymore, I' ll stop. I' ll even give you a medal."

" Jesus, baby. Are you a nympho? I hate screwing a nympho. It' s like getting your cock caught in a sieve."

She put her hand down his pants and wrapped it around his stiffened prick. It was thick and dry and hot in her palm. She clutched at it and moved her fisted hand up and down against his pole. She squeezed harder as he grew more massive under her grasp.

" Worry about what my cunt is doing to you later. Just get in me, you idiot, or I' ll rip this gorgeous prick right out." She threw herself across him and tore his pants open. His fat prick stood upright, and she lowered her mouth to encircle it. It tasted rich and musty in her mouth. Already his juices oozed from the tip in anticipation of the eruption to come. He pulled his hand away from her throbbing cunt and she gasped at the empty feeling that shot into her.

" Suck me, baby. Suck me."

She licked around his cock from top to bottom, lingering at the head. Each time she dove forward to take him into her throat she drew breath, creating a suction that drove him wild. While his shaft was buried deep, she tongued his balls, getting some enjoyment from the way they jerked when she worried them with her teeth. His tool was glistening with her saliva when she finally pulled away.

" Fuck me before I die," Gloria moaned.

Jules pulled her under him and directed his pole to her slit. One tremendous thrust and he opened her wide. He gasped explosively against her.

" Push. Push," she urged, feeling whole for the first time of the evening. " Split me open."

" Baby, baby, I can' t hold it. I' m coming."

" You bastard," she screamed, her legs trembling with the passion still stored in her. " Let a man get in me. Maurice, quick, before I suffocate from need."

Maurice pulled Jules away from her and nervously pulled at the zipper of his pants.

" Hurry," she wept. She didn' t see the prick that rammed into her, and she sucked deep at it with her cunt. He shoved up and down upon her, the buttons of his shirt digging into her. Her hands clung frantically to his head, then shoulders, then his bobbing ass.

" Deeper. Deeper. Kill me with your hot cock. Fuck me! Fuck me!"

" Just hold on, baby. Hold on," he urged between gasps.

He arched above her, and with maniacal precision, rubbed the tip of her clitoris against his inserted prick.

" Come now. Come, you cunt," he croaked.

" Not yet, but soon… soon. Don' t stop. Just that way. Don' t stop." Her body twisted and turned in anguish, her hips bucking against his. Then the heat in her sparked into flame, and they ground orgasms into each other. As she throbbed uncontrollably against him, a laugh echoed in her head, growing louder as she drew breath. The rapist laughed wildly at her passion and the laugh said, " It didn' t work, doll, did it? Every time you fuck, you get hotter and hotter for me. They just prepare you for me. Like plucking a chicken before you cook it." She cried out in terror, " I' ll never get him out of me. Conrad, help me. Please help me."

Conrad removed his trembling hand from the prick it was pumping with frenzy.

" I thought you were played out. Let me have some of that pussy." His lithe body pulled hers onto him. She tugged his pants off, revealing the lightly muscled legs and the hair- covered belly from which sprang his long, thin cock. He grabbed her by the hips and lowered her onto his jackhammer. Suddenly he was in her, fucking fast and deep.

" Come," he commanded, and she pumped up and down rapidly and desperately against his ordering prick. She pressed her thighs and mound hungrily into him, his up- and- down rod releasing fluttering orgasms as he crushed her breasts with his hands. She felt, hysterically, that she would come, senselessly and eternally. His thighs were steel under her as his sperm pumped out of him, blending with the juices of her passion. He breathed exhaustively into her neck as she bent over him and her orgasms calmed into quietness.

Gloria sighed. She could have come and come for the evening, her cunt opening like a mouth, and still be left incomplete. She thrust her fingers into it, not moving them, just pressing nervously into herself. The three men sprawled languorously in the armchairs and couch.

" Man!" said Jules. " This pot is the greatest. I could swear I just fucked Gloria."

" Pot does strange things," said Conrad.

" Am I going to have to fuck forever and never find the final release?" asked Gloria wearily.

" Lady, you sure do get into it," said Conrad.

" It was good while it lasted," she responded to no one in particular. " Now I' m left high and wet."

" Give us time to gather our forces, Gloria."

" No! I never want to fuck any of you more than once. I' m looking for a particular prick… the others just hang me up. Oh, God," she started to cry. " Roll me a cigarette."

Conrad stuck his between her lips and she drew on it peckingly. She tried to draw the obliterating smoke down into her cunt, to smother the longing. She gasped and rolled her hips into the empty air. " Just put your finger in me. Please, Conrad," she pleaded.

He looked at her warningly. " That sounds therapeutic, not romantic at all."

" Just don' t let me faint here."

" I think you' d better go home. Come on, I' ll get you there."

" No," she whimpered, but she let him help her dress.

" Go home and get some sleep," said Jules. " You' ll feel better."

" Better? What do you mean better? I' ll just have to fuck till I die… till I can come and look into a pair of dead white eyes."

" You' re getting pretty morbid."

" What the hell. What time is it?"

" I have ten- thirty," answered Maurice.

" Yes, take me home," she mumbled. " I have an eleven o' clock appointment. That will keep me going."

She walked to the door with Conrad. " Thanks for the pot; thanks for the couch; thanks for the lay." Conrad opened the door for her and she moved her hips around him and into the hall.

CHAPTER V

She sat on the couch and opened a fresh pack of cigarettes. It was five to eleven, and she was waiting. All her life, she thought, she had spent waiting. Listening to footsteps in the hall. To keys turning in other locks. The people next door always led a fuller life… of groaning bedsprings and sated morning looks.

And what am I waiting for now, that won' t vanish and won' t separate like mercury in my hands, if I try to hold it? But if you stop trying to hold to things, you relinquish your hold on life. Maybe that' s how you win the game. To find the world, you must first lose it.

Big deal. Here she was waiting to be fucked by two faggots, and that was the only reality. That was the total. Twenty- four years of girlish fantasies and self- importance and faith in her specialness, and now two twentieth century crusaders were going to try to be men for her, or girls for each other, or father and son, or mother and son, or daughters and mothers, or daughters and fathers, or sisters or brothers. Because everyone had just forgotten how to be men and women. And did the men forget first, or didn' t the women – the eternal teachers – teach them a damn thing? Were they all doing it for " kicks?" No, this bug in her was more than a kick. It was voracious enough to swallow her, to suck her in upside down, replacing her head with a great, yawning cunt. Maybe that' s why she was drawing bleeding gashes on her canvas.

Why didn' t they come? Her cunt was beating like an exhausted heart. Probably they' d never arrive. Off somewhere buggering each other. Proving they could do without women, which they could… but who wanted to prove it in the first place? You could do without anything; you could not get born. No, that was the one involuntary action, and Christ, you paid for it.

She heard the shuffle of shoes on the stairway, then a shrill excited laugh, not male or female. Then a rap on the door.

" Let us in. Let us in, you witch."

" We' re dying. We' re just dying."

She opened the door for the two handsome men. The chosen people. The self- sufficient. The suicidal, dead and breathing hard.

" Honey, we' ve worked out a juicy itinerary."

" Well, I' ve got juice enough for the two of you."

" You' re so dirty…"

" I' m so hot."

" Look, doll, we' re more cultivated than that. Let' s have a drink and talk and act like we don' t know what' s going to happen till we get our clothes off."

" All right," she said. " Shall I mix a pitcher of martinis? We might get thirsty."

" A pitcher. Not a drop less. We' ll have a party."

Harry took her hand in his and looked at her with his serious compassionate eyes. " Gloria. Are you just flipping? I mean, if you' re just suffering over some guy, we don' t want to move in and take advantage."

" I' m suffering over all mankind. Look at you two."

" Now that' s no way to talk to your guests," said Jack. " Just go mix the booze, darling."

" My God, Jack," Harry murmured, " you' re so insensitive."

" You bet your next ten screws I' m insensitive. I don' t want histories. I don' t care what' s bugging her. I just like to get my cock in where I can – men, women, children, rocks, walls, water hydrants, old shoes…"

" Okay, okay. You can be such a bore."

" What' s egging you? Is it because you never screwed a woman? It' s easy," Jack snorted. " Just close your eyes and think you' re in any old hole."

" But what does he see when he closes his eyes?"

" His mother, fucking his father and screaming, ' Oh George.'"

" Why don' t you shut your filthy faggot mouth?" Harry spat.

" Cause I' m just a faggot, darling. I don' t care what my mother did. I hope she had as good a time as I do."

" She had a ball."

" Then let' s have a ball. That' s what we' re here for… not group therapy. Not too much vermouth. Please don' t dilute all that beautiful Gordon' s gin."

" You' re so fey," Gloria laughed

" I' m all things to all people."

" And lover to me?" she asked.

" Not lover, baby. Just fucker. Harry is my love."

" Your first?"

" I' m my first. I' m my first and no doubts about that."

" I' m surprised I got into the picture at all," Harry said with a suggestive pout.

" Oh, lover boy, don' t brood." Jack ran his hand over Harry' s tight- muscled buttocks.

" Don' t touch me."

" Whore," said Jack, and kissed his angry lover on the lips.

Gloria sat and watched them. This insatiable trembling between her legs filled her with fear that they would argue and leave, to caress each other later into forgiving sighs.

" Drink your martinis," she said. " No more bickering. We don' t want to hate each other when we screw."

" A little hate is good, cause it' s so violent," said Jack.

" God, you could turn wine to water," giggled Harry.

" But most of all, I' d like to just drink it."

" Let' s just be gay."

" We' re nothing, if not gay."

" Does that make you something?" said Gloria.

" Two very interesting lays."

" I' m finished with my drink. Let' s find out while we can see straight."

" Straight. Straight. I hate that word."

" Yes, Gloria. Be careful of your language."

" Jesus, I think you just came here to discuss language. Easy baby. You know… easy come, easy go."

" God, you' re both scared. Just plain scared. And I thought it was so fancy to be a faggot."

" Just come here," Jack said furiously, " and suck me and you' ll see how scared I am."

The rapist had made her take his prick, already rigid, in her mouth, but the prick offered to her now was flaccid and limp, like a wet rope. She put the flesh into her mouth and her tongue urged it to virility. Her teeth made soft loving bites up the hidden spine of his cock. Her heart felt wild with anger. What if he can' t get in me after all this? Why must we suffer and beg to be laid? Except when you don' t want to. Then they' re hard and urgent against you all the time. They really don' t want you to like it. Not anything. Get hard you bastard. I swear I' ll bite if off.

" Gloria," he wailed, " you' re hurting me," and he pulled her head away. " I' m sorry, baby. Too much talk; too much liquor."

" Look," she said, the madness spinning inside her, " I' m sorry. I didn' t mean to hurt you. But don' t leave me like this. I think that I' d kill myself. Just put your fingers, or your tongue, or the broom in the closet in me. I' ve got a cavern inside of me."

Jack looked at her with pity and contempt. This was what he had always suspected lay hidden behind the modest performances of women – this rage that made them want to swallow your prick and press it out through their cunts. He felt like laughing into her agonized face. You can' t have it baby. It' s all mine, and Harry' s, and it even belongs to the men I offer it to, and sell it to, and give it to. They' re safe. They' ve got cocks of their own. They know enough to give mine back… and really admire it.

" Please," she was saying, whimpering to the demon in her, " I can' t bear it. We have a contract," she added desperately, as if an ethic could convince him. " You' ve been trying to lay me for three years. Is everything a fucking lie? Don' t men get any feeling out of getting into a woman, or is the whole kick working up to it and then thinking it over? Is the actual screwing nothing, just an unadvertised feature, just a time- killing newsreel? For us, the moment is when you get your pricks into the dark cave we hide beneath our skirts. " I want to die," she said quite calmly. " I really want to die."

Harry took her hand and said gently, " Maybe if Jack and I begin…"

" Yes," she agreed eagerly. " I' ll wait. But don' t make me wait too long. I might explode."

Harry laughed and reached over to Jack' s exposed flaccid hook of flesh. He took it gently in his hand. " Come to Daddy," he murmured, and exposing his even clenched teeth, he bent his head to the stiffening rod.

" That' s it, baby. That' s how Harry likes it – nice and hard." He put the cock deep in his mouth and Jack trembled with excitement. He let the glistening shaft pop out of his mouth on the upstroke. " That' s the obedient prick I know." His head moved slowly up and down above the matted hair of Jack' s loins.

" Give us a hand, Gloria," Jack whispered. " Take Harry' s pants off and move him around so that I can get at his cock."

Harry lifted his head from his intense task. " Good idea."

" Don' t talk," Jack begged. " Just suck like the good girl you are."

Gloria' s body ached with excitement. There were two rigid cocks in the room and she felt the terrible fear that neither of them were for her. Why did sex have to be attached to a brain? Why couldn' t people screw eager and separate from anything else they did? She reached over to Harry' s slender waist, found the button to the zipper, and reached for his stiff prick. It was swelled and throbbing to her touch, and she awkwardly encircled it with her hand. She could not stop knocking it, precious and virile, against her palm.

Harry moved her hand away, and she understood. She reached for his underpants and pulled his clothes from his body. His hips were narrow as a young girl' s; his skin was dry and hot. He pushed her aside and moved his body over Jack' s head. Jack' s mouth was open and gasping. He looked like a fish hungry for the hook. Raising his head up, he swallowed the offered prick with a grunt. The two men lay twisted amorously against each other, and she could hear the wet sounds of lapping tongues.

Tears of anguish slid down to Gloria' s mouth and she tasted the warm salt of her frustration. Her cunt, too, was weeping. Watching the men ravish each other' s cocks, she wished that her mouth could cover it.

Then Jack whispered urgently, " I can' t take it anymore." He pushed Harry beneath him. He bent his head to moisten the familiar hole of Harry' s tensely muscled ass. With one sure move he drove his engorged cock into Harry, tight into him so his hips were flattened against Harry' s buttocks. With his free hand, he caressed Harry' s rigid cock, but Gloria pushed his hand away and greedily forced the excited flesh into her mouth. Her tongue moved hungrily down the length of his sex.

" Please, I' m begging you. Try," she said to him. She got flat on her back, encircling the kneeling men with her wide- stretched legs. Harry seemed hardly conscious, so Gloria took his prick in both her hands and raised her hips up against it. Close, close, almost in. But as it neared her offered vagina, Harry' s flesh softened.

" Oh, my God," she moaned. " I can' t stand it." But Jack reached from behind Harry' s back, and holding the rigid prick in his hand, he directed it into Gloria' s yawning pussy. In it went, in, in, and grew harder and longer as it groped along the constricting passage.

" I' ve done it! I' ve done it!" Harry began to weep and he thrust his body up and down against Gloria' s white belly. The three of them pumped and groaned with a primitive desperation.

" I' m coming! I' m coming!" wailed Jack, and his lover, feeling the spurt of hot fluid, went into grinding orgasm. " Come now, Gloria. Now or never."

Gloria felt her hysterical body heave senselessly, and she knew from her gestures that she had realized the tense orgasm. But her cunt felt as empty and driven as before. She began to scream meaningless obscenities until Harry struck her across the face.

Jack' s prick was rigid again, so he tossed the screaming girl on her stomach and searched for her anal orifice. His prick was as thick as a fist, and he forced it mercilessly into the narrow opening. Gloria shrieked with pain as first the swollen head, then the massive shaft seemed to split her unsated body.

" It hurts too much. Stop. Please. Please." But his body continued to move fiercely in its tight enclosure.

Harry knelt in front of her and put his mouth over her cunt. His tongue tasted the sperm of his orgasm. The pain between her buttock cheeks made her come faster, and she slipped from one orgasm to the next, clutching Harry' s bent head.

Finally, the two men let her go. Her sobs of exhaustion filled the room.

" Just one more," Harry commanded. " I' ve got to get my prick up your ass, Gloria dear, and then you' re finished for the night, doll."

" Wait," Jack said. " Wait till I' m stiff again. I' ll fuck her straight, while you get in behind." Harry laughed with excitement. " Maybe we can touch pricks inside."

Within a minute, the two men were rigid.

Jack pulled her gracelessly over his slightly spread legs. His fingers found her drooling cunt, and with his two thumbs, he pulled the exhausted lips apart. His prick slipped up into her.

Gloria lay panting against his chest, pinned to him with her desire. Her hips swung convulsively against him while he swiftly rolled her on her side. Then he reached behind her and opened her for his lover.

She could hear Harry gasping behind her, and then with excruciating pain, felt him pierce her. The three lay spread and riveted together, undulating and pumping in a wave of motion.

" Now," said Jack, and pushing her head aside, the two men' s mouths met as they came in her, darting for each other' s pricks. They fucked her savagely in their passion.

Gloria groaned and swam into a black spinning unconsciousness. Her body, when she opened her eyes, felt weightless with pain.

" Let' s cut, Jack," Harry said, and he slipped his pants over his hips.

" It' s been grand, baby," Jack touched her disheveled hair. " Now get some sleep so you' ll be ready for the next time."

Her dry mouth formed the words, " There won' t be a next time."

" Why, Gloria, we came through as requested."

" There' s only one man who' s going to have a next time with me

… and it' s going to be his last time."

" Oh boy," whistled Jack, " I' d hate to make you angry."

It' s not anger, she thought. It' s insanity. I want to kill him more than anything I' ve ever wanted in my life. But, God, just let me see him again. If he' s taken off for Kansas or Tibet, I' ll be dead within a month. I' ll fuck the life out of myself.

She barely heard the door close behind Jack and Harry. Then the shrill feminine laugh came through the door and she relaxed into a stupored sleep.

CHAPTER VI

When she woke up the next morning, she felt sick and exhausted. She knew she was feeding her disease with its cause. As if a thousand pricks in her could obliterate her need to be ravished again by the one man who had crumbled the thin shell of her sanity. She was not submitting to the other men for a moment' s forgetting. Their bodies on top of hers and their thick, hard cocks delving into her pussy gave her a sharp, screaming recollection of the black- jacketed maniac who had used and sullied and discarded her in one- half an hour. Most horrible of all, she would not or could not forget him. She was, in her suffering, intensely and hysterically alive. She hated it with a rage that made her wanton and destructive… as if she were shrieking to the men, " Destroy me before I destroy the world!" Yet they could not destroy her. They could barely touch the cavern of anger beneath her soft flesh.

My flesh is a disguise. I should be mottled and green and pockmarked. The ugliness inside should show, as the white eyes of my rapist had revealed his barren soul.

His barrenness had excited her, exhausted her. He was a man she could never have. A man who did not have himself, who had nothing. To search for him was to offer a primitive sacrifice. But she would sacrifice herself by killing her god. Yes, she would rivet his body onto her, as though she were the cross of Jesus. And she would pierce his heart.

I must dominate him, and I will, I will, I shall give him his death. I will be second only to his mother, who gave him life. And mine is the more fearful role. I know how he' ll look at me when I stab him – with milky eyes of contempt and surprise. He is waiting for one of us to destroy him. It is strange, when the poisons seep into our actions. The men I have hated with a smile on my lips and did not know that fear and loathing were making me dead to my desires. But they feared me, too, in their mother- shaped heart. What could we do but confront each other with masks? Yes, they can fuck me with the vestiges of need and contact. My passion is not free. I know that. My passion is a struggle, up, up from the dungeon of fear. These men who crash against me know the dungeon is there: mossy and molding, inviting death. His sperm will be my Eucharist.

She moved her feet to the floor beside her bed and lifted her body with the caution of a dying centenarian. I must buy a douche, she thought, and a diaphragm. What a monster would be born out of this sex rattle.

She walked into the bathroom and turned the tap on. The hot water splashed into the enamel tub. Beneath the white gleam on the tub was an iron base, and she fingered the chipped exterior that revealed it. She felt almost relaxed as she prepared some coffee in the kitchen, knowing that the pain and madness would be back in her within a few hours.

She reflected on how when she' d struggled to consciousness from the depths, she' d felt that she was coming forth from the source of pain, and for the moment she' d lain resolved and depleted. Then the world that she had lived in for twenty- four deceitful, suffering years beckoned her, and she rose crushed and doomed.

As fearful as she found her dreams, they still locked out her consciousness. In dreams, she suffered with the frustration and protection of echoed sounds. The reality of life was worse. It' s the mystery, she thought. At least in my dreams, I act directly and fully believe. It' s the not believing that wounds us. In dreams, there is only one voice, our voice, and we believe it with the faith of children or simpletons. Now my only belief is the rapist, my longing to destroy him, the singularity of a dream. And she knew, therefore, that she would not give it up.

She stripped herself of the clothes she had slept in and sank into the hot smoking bath. Her body gave itself to the soothing balm as it had never been given to a man. The water rose, green and clear, to outline her breasts, and her hips spread languorously. The rapist had unearthed a chain of orgasms that gave her no gratification, and she felt her body, like a mocking enemy, grow hot with passion in the tub. The horror, the aloneness was gone. She rushed her fingers under water to get at her sobbing cunt, but the water made her fingers slippery and ineffectual against the insatiable pit. Desperately she rushed from the bath and pressed a thick, absorbent towel to her vagina. She rubbed mercilessly, and thought of the knife she had placed in her handbag that she was going to use to kill her god.

Maybe I should just cut my sex away.

Her death was of little importance to her. But his death… She rubbed eagerly and her body responded with its empty orgasm.

The desire in her grew in intensity. She rushed to the kitchen and saw an empty thin- necked bottle of Chianti. With a groan, she lowered herself heavily on the bottle and felt it plunge into the tortured folds of her insane flesh. She spun meaninglessly on the bottle top, and then stretched flat on the kitchen floor. She began to methodically pull the bottle in and out of her grasping cunt. The cool glass grew warm and wet in her. After a few minutes, she came against the bottle and lay nearly unconscious on the floor.

I must get out of here. I' ll walk, or go horseback riding, or do something to get my mind off my cunt. Maybe I can control it. What is a brain for? To find bottles and towels? " Oh God," she whimpered. " Have other women gone through this? Are we a society of prickworshippers, or despisers? – It' s the same thing. Will I look back at them and recognize them? I hate them; I hate the women like me, the pathetic beasts. I must get dressed and get out. That' s the first thing. Surely I can hold onto myself long enough to get dressed. It' s like an attack that overwhelms me. His attack. Over and over. I get the same sensation of panic as that moment when he kneeled between my legs."

She dressed herself with fevered haste, as if a monster was in the room with her and she could leave it behind.

She rushed down the stairs and out into the sunshine of an innocuous day. The people on the street looked calm, not particularly alive. The pattern of their existence insulated them. Up at eight, work at nine, lunch at twelve… how had she lost their world? She wanted it back. She wanted the serenity of habit.

She looked aimlessly into shop windows. The plaid skirt, the Etruscan art, the modern jewelry made no impact on her blind eyes.

She looked up and down the street for him. A man in a black jacket. A man with no face. She saw a black- jacketed man walking casually towards her. Her heart choked her and her knees drained of strength. The joints in her body lost their adhesion, and she would have fallen to the ground had she not seen in a moment that it wasn' t him. The world seemed filled with men in black jackets. A hundred times her eyes found him hiding behind other faces and indifferent bodies.

Possibly I' m completely insane and I never was raped. Maybe there never was a man with white eyes in a black jacket. And why am I indulging myself like this? It is an indulgence, yes. Why don' t I say it' s over? It happened once and now I' ll forget it. I can cut him out of my mind. But can I cut him out of my cunt?

And with that thought, she felt a deep throb that made her lean against a plate glass window for support. She tried desperately to catch her breath.

I must sit down; I must get my fingers into me.

Across the street, she saw that the Art Cinema was showing, " On the Waterfront," for the eight- hundredth time.

I' ll get into the theatre. There won' t be many people at 2:30 in the afternoon.

She brushed against automobiles, using them for support, and got to the ticket window. Her hands trembled as she paid her money and then handed the ticket to the unfriendly elderly attendant. She climbed high into the balcony and sat down in a far corner. Ahead of her were seven or eight heads, scattered in twos and threes. She leaned back and slid her fingers up her thigh to her wet cunt. But there was a sudden motion next to her and she jumped with fright. She had forgotten that she was not alone in the world.

A man sat next to her, busily removing his coat, then reaching into his pocket for a cellophane- wrapped package of caramels. He held them out before her, and she shook her head. The man' s face was indistinct in the darkened room. She could barely make out his profile. On the screen, a bunch of thugs were pounding Marlon Brando' s face, and a skinny blond girl was looking agonized.

Maybe he' s a stevedore. I should go to the docks early in the morning, and look for him.

The man next to her rapped her shoulder again and stuck a bag of popcorn in front of her nose. " No, thanks," she said. " I' m not hungry."

But the man didn' t take his hand from her shoulder. It rested lightly against her, and the contact intensified the yearning in her body. He moved his hand down her arms, deliberately brushing against her breasts. Her soft cashmere sweater welcomed the caress. His fingers circled one breast until they found and formed the hard outline of her nipple. His thumb and forefinger pinched it gently and her body buzzed from breast to cunt. Then he moved closer to her and reached his arm across the back of her chair. His other hand found the other breast, and four fingers worked with sure mastery. Her head fell back into the curve of his arm and she gasped incoherently as he luxuriated over a pointed stiff tit.

The moisture, in drops, began to flow down her thighs, and the man seemed to sense that she could stand it no longer. His hand moved to her skirt and touched her bare knee. He moved up to wet thighs and kneaded them roughly. Then he slid beneath her panties and touched the burning fold of hidden flesh, his fingers darted eagerly, deeply into her. The orgasm began coming and he cruelly removed his hand. She screamed with horror at this denial and saw that Marlon Brando was now a bloody pulp. Someone in the audience laughed, thinking her cry was one of sympathy.

The figure next to her undid his pants, and she said, " No, not here," with desperation.

His voice was a harsh, guttural growl, as he commanded, " Just go down on me."

" Don' t leave me like this," she cried. " Please."

" I' ll finish you, baby," he whispered. " I just don' t want to be left too far behind."

His prick was the only spot of whiteness in the dark balcony. She bent her head to her task and mixed tears with the few drops of sperm that already lubricated the rigid pulsating flesh. His cockhead was hot and velvety as she began to bob her head up and down along the length of the shaft. Her tongue was frantic, and she heard his groan of pleasure. The flesh in her mouth beat uncontrollably and she felt it grow stiffer. Then, like an over- inflated balloon, it seemed to burst in her mouth. The thick liquid streamed in behind her teeth. She moved her head hastily to the side to spit it out, but some of the sperm had already trickled down her throat. It had a musty, exotic taste. Curiously, she swallowed a bit more, and then curved her tongue upward to keep the strange serum in her mouth. There was something disgusting and yet elusive about the flavor. She wanted to throw up and began to gag. But her lips pressed together tightly, and soon her mouth had emptied its load into her tense throat.

She sat quietly clinging to the sensation. Her unknown lover was down on his knees before her. He lifted her skirt and buried his head against her thighs. His tongue leapt out and skillfully sucked her enraged mound of damp hair and the sensitive flesh it guarded. He made deep swallowing noises. For a moment, she felt delirious and separate from the animal at her feet. " Good as caramels?" she wanted to ask. But her tongue would not cooperate with her sardonic thoughts.

He continued to press his head against her; his teeth, biting gently at her pussy lips, seemed to close her into a hidden world of inexhaustible sensuality. She moved her hips contentedly against him, and then a rush of energy along her limbs freed the orgasm. She panted with excitement, wanting him to go on forever. But he lifted his body and sat heavily in his vacant seat.

" Let' s get out of here," he implored. " Let' s get something to drink."

She did not turn to him, but watched Marlon Brando walking heroically toward a blurred building. Some fat idiot was waiting in the doorway.

" No," she answered. " No drink. No nothing. Don' t look at me. Just get up and leave the theatre. I' m going to watch the coming attractions. And I don' t want to see you when I leave, or I swear I' ll call the cops."

" What' s the matter, baby?" he asked. " Didn' t you like it? I got a million tricks to show you."

" I liked it fine," she said sarcastically, " but I don' t believe in repeat performances. I haven' t got time to go around the world twice."

" But, lady, we haven' t begun to go anywhere yet. Believe me, the next part of the trip is better."

" Leave now," she repeated, " or I' ll complain to the manager. I' ll tell him I' ve had to change my seat twelve times. I' m serious. I don' t know exactly what you look like, and I don' t want to know. If you look for me, or wait for me, or follow me, I' ll have you arrested."

" What' s the matter, kid? You got a jealous husband?"

" Yes," she said wearily, " and he' d kill both of us."

The man sat quietly for a few seconds. " You win, lady. I think you' re nuts, but it was a good show." He slipped her a printed card. " If you ever get lonely, ring me. Just mention Brando' s name."

Fifteen minutes later, she dropped the card on the floor and walked back to her empty apartment.

CHAPTER VII

She spent a few days feeling completely insane. She walked the streets of Greenwich Village for hours looking for the man whose face she had completely forgotten. What was most frightening was the thought that he might never have existed, that she had created him out of an incredible lust and sickness inside herself. As long as he was not her creation, she could live, searching for him and trying to recreate, for the final time, the experience he had given her. If he did not exist, she was already dead, and it was a shadow that her lovers embraced.

Gloria had changed in the two weeks of her debauch. Her face wore the exhausted and strained look of one who waits. Her hands strayed nervously across her neck and face with spinsterish aimlessness. Sometimes, in the morning, she felt liberated. But a glance in the mirror revealed her agony and would send her down into the streets, peering into bars and passing automobiles for her appointed victim. She was completely dedicated to one idea… to kill him. Some women, she knew, chose to live their subjugation. They discovered the chastised, tormented creature they were and lived to feed their own suffering. They searched for a master to punish them, to sate their craving for punishment. It became a sick dream – to be punished enough. Punished for what? For forgiveness, for a reprieve, for the sins of fathers and mothers and aunts and uncles and cousins. And finally for the sins of rage and appetite – the combined sins of all.

There was no human pain to touch her. She was incapable of repentance; all she wished was vengeance.

Yes, revenge is vanity. My vanity is so great that nothing can penetrate my wall of self- love. Or is it self- hate? How fantastic to adore oneself, feeding only on gratification. And how could I despise myself, if I did not worship myself? Somewhere, somehow, I promised myself glory that I could not achieve. I am my only god, my only creed, my only disappointment, my only devil. Did anyone ever live in such a closed world? Nothing outside of me, except what I siphon in with bitterness and revenge. I understand the confessions of witches. I am a witch, and it would be my triumph to be burned. What a moment of ecstasy, to have the flames cut into the flesh and know intensely that the possession was over, the warped prisoner was tortured out of the body. It is a small sin to sacrifice the body.

Yes, the rapist invaded my cunt and womb and belly and mouth with a monstrous creature. Or he brought to life the creature that lay curled dormant within me. His death will draw the insanity back into him, the way paintings show the spirits of martyrs oozing up to Heaven. I make him my martyr. I exorcise myself in my personal universe. I call him God and Satan, and I devote myself to his martyrdom.

In weariness one night, she went to the bar across the street from her apartment. Arno' s was a dark, wood- paneled, quiet restaurant. The owner had squire ambitions. He hung pheasants and rabbits from the low ceilings. In a back room, a charcoal fire blazed under thick steaks and chops. Tired businessmen and their decorated women came there and pretended to be in English country houses. The men' s ties and the women' s beaded frocks blended perfectly with the artificial decor. If a man in a cap and tweeds had wandered into Arno' s, its authenticity would have disintegrated like the ashes behind the fireplace fender. But the English aristocracy did not wander into Arno' s, so the pretenders had their bit of Europe with baked potatoes on the side.

Gloria sat at the mahogany bar and locked her heels in the bottom rung of the stool. She talked quietly to Mike, the bartender, who mixed the chilled martinis and seemed genuinely concerned about her.

" Hello, Gloria," he said, as she sat tiredly in front of him. " Haven' t seen you for a couple of weeks."

" I' ve been away," she lied.

" Back home?" he asked eagerly. He had been tending in the village for eleven years, but his mission was to send small- town girls out of the city.

" No," she said, " just a vacation to Fire Island."

" Fire Island," he echoed. " I used to go there years ago. Had a nice, quiet crowd then. But I hear it' s changed."

" It' s pretty wild," she agreed. " But it still looks kind of rustic, and the beach is terrific."

Talking to him, calmly and mundanely, she felt that she was grabbing frantically for a remnant of her sanity. That was the quality of a good bartender, to make the drunk feel sober and sensible. This is what happens to us, she thought, when we really go nuts. We become absolutely banal. I' d give him my life if he' d just stand here and talk to me about the weather.

" Excuse me, Gloria," he said, and moved up the bar to take an order for two Manhattans. He stood talking to the man who ordered the drinks and then moved to the back of the bar to mix them. Gloria cupped the martini glass in her two hands and swallowed the clear liquid.

Why am I doing this to myself? She knew that while she had been talking to Mike, she had been thinking of the rapist. She had just been making sounds with her mouth to dim the ever- playing record in her head. Why am I doing this? He isn' t important; I know that. He could rape a thousand women, and except for the shock and horror, they' d delete the memory with a hot douche. It' s all my comedy. He is nothing… a fantasy. He' s probably a salesman who got hot, or a moving man with a bored wife. He must be illiterate and gross and sick, enjoying only the women he takes violently. And she remembered the cool voice saying, " We' re going to have a little party…" and her hand trembled with desire.

It was his insolence that maddened her. No. Insolence was a word that you used for snide servants. She washis servant. His face had been white; not a face that turned to the sun or air. He was airless, magnificently useless. A man without enthusiasms, and he made the rest of the world seem petty in its ambitions.

My God, I am creating a genius of disdain. He might be praying for a promotion in a department store shipping department. It' s the not knowing him. I detest knowing the men who fuck me. They' re so full of themselves, but they pretend to know I' m under them, soothing their pricks. Two bloated bodies meeting in space. He pressed me under the steps and I didn' t exist. I was just his passion. No one can make me live, but he obliterated me.

Without saying another word, Mike mixed her a double Martini. He poured it into her empty glass, which was careless, since Martini glasses should be chilled. But she couldn' t last a second without the drink before her, just as she couldn' t breathe without having something between her legs. A cock had become a pacifier to her, a teething ring.

That' s it. I' m just cutting my teeth, and what will I do with them when they' re fully grown? Men are supposed to be afraid of the mouths into which they offer their malehood. But if I can' t have one of my own, I certainly want them to hang on to theirs. A world without a prick is like a house without a hearth, or something like that.

She was deep in the second drink when a man sat down next to her and said, " Let me buy you the next one."

Mike looked up hastily across the bar. He didn' t like to see his regulars annoyed. He moved toward them, but Gloria stopped him with a look.

" Thanks," she said. " I' d love you to buy the next one."

Mike looked amazed, then disappointed. He thought that all women must be rotten, and then remembered his wife and daughter and wanted to rush out and drive directly to Queens. They should be sitting down to dinner now.

Seeing the man' s raised hand, he mixed them both fresh martinis, and this time he gave Gloria a new glass. But the drink just reached the white chalk- line. No bonuses for tarts.

Gloria fought her embarrassment and took a long, cool draught. It more than helped. It made scruples a forgotten Sunday School lesson. The man, with his bought privileges, moved his stool closer to Gloria' s.

" I' ve seen you in here quite often," he told her.

" Yes, I live across the street. It' s a good place to come for a quickie."

He carefully misunderstood the word. " We all need ' quickies' once in a while," and he winked with adolescent lasciviousness.

" Brilliant." She hated him for the weak pun, and for his enjoyment of it.

The man looked back at her, first with confusion and then with distrust. " Lady," he said rudely, " I just want a piece of ass."

She thought only ignorant soldiers used that expression, and for an instant her face contorted with distaste.

" I know what you want," she said.

He was going to let her despise him, so long as he could have a fifteen- minute fuck. " You' re a smart little girl." He changed his tone.

" Buy me another drink," she commanded.

It was no longer a question of getting a prick into her. She knew that if he left her, she would have nothing but the memory of white eyes and her haunting inadequacy. It would be enough to know where he was, what he did, who his women were. That way she could sink herself into his invisible life. But it was knowing nothing, nothing but the feeling in her groin, that fed her desperation.

She reached over and patted the man' s hand. " Don' t mind me," she apologized. " I' m just fighting a ghost."

" Someone in your family die?" he asked with the mock suburban concern he always showed to whores.

" Yes," she said. " Someone in my family died."

" Why, that' s a shame, little girl," he murmured. " But we all have to go sometime."

She wondered if she should kill him instead of the rapist.

" We all have to go," she echoed, and laughed.

" It makes you think," he added. " It makes you think that you' d better enjoy life while you got it."

" You' re right," she said. " Everyone should enjoy life. To the fullest, to the brimming- over cup."

He looked down at his brown and white shoes. " Now don' t be sacrilegious."

She almost fell off the stool.

" What I mean," she said, pressing against his frightened, corpulent body, " is that everyone should fuck a lot."

He didn' t answer her for a few seconds. " Who died?" he asked, getting the conversation onto safer grounds.

" I did," she answered. " If you don' t object to necrophilia, I guarantee a good time."

" What' s that?" In his confusion, he lifted his hand for another round.

" It' s fucking a corpse," she told him in the tone she' d use to tell him the time or her name.

He turned his head away. " You' ve got a funny sense of humor."

" What?"

" You got a helluva sense of humor," he said, with a slight toughening alteration of his voice.

" I was even funnier," she explained, " when I was alive. When I was alive, I was an absolute scream."

" And now?" he said, afraid to look stupid.

" Now I' m only a moan."

He looked at her slim arms and softly- powdered pale skin. It seemed a shame to give her up just because she was nuts.

" Where do you come from?" he finally asked.

" I told you. Across the street," she answered, purposefully avoiding the obvious information.

" I mean, where were you born?" he persisted.

" Under a stairway," she told him. " In blood and pain. It was quite a shock. I almost died. In fact, that' s when I died."

" Look, sister," he submitted wearily. " I only have an hour before I catch a train. If you want to do business, okay. If not, I' d rather finish this drink alone." His chin trembled at his offer to relinquish her.

Gloria sat very still. She drained her glass and looked at the fly of his pants. Nothing. She had scared the hard- on from between his thighs. Her head ached from the four martinis, and she knew that she' d have a hard time getting up the stairs alone. Alone. Alone. To lie in her bed and listen for footsteps.

" I want to do business," she said meekly.

The man didn' t say another word. He pulled some crumpled bills from his pocket and paid Mike. Then he placed his hand under her elbow and helped her off the stool.

" I live right across the street." The room was turning with carnival abandon.

" What number?"

" Forty- two."

He pushed the swinging doors open for her and they were out on the dark, quiet street. They walked silently to her house.

" The fourth floor."

They mounted the steps wordlessly. He' s not so bad when he shuts his mouth, she thought.

At her door, she reached into her handbag and found her key. She gave it to him as she would to a fraternity date. He looked surprised, but he put the key in the lock and let them both into the apartment. The rooms were forbiddingly silent and he nervously cleared his throat. She turned on the lamp in the living room. A distorted light fell on a blue and gray canvas.

He stood and looked at the picture. " Quite a piece of art." He rocked on his heels.

" Shut up," she said.

He looked shocked. " What? What did you say?"

" Shut up. Shut up. Shut your mouth. Nothing but stupidities come out of your mouth. You have no right to be that stupid. No one has the right to be that stupid." She knew she was drunk. " I bet that you never call anyone stupid. You call them ignoramuses. I bet you have six real long words that you use for speeches and strangers."

" You know a lot," he said. Then he pulled his hand back and slapped her across the mouth. She tasted blood and surprise, and finally excitement.

" Do you beat your whores, stupid? Do you beat your whores and then go home and your wife beats you?" She laughed gaily.

This time he made an enraged fist and punched her in the face. The blow was down on her jaw and she thought he must have broken something.

" You should enjoy what I' m telling you," she pursued. " You' d have to pay an analyst a bucket of money to get this truthful observation. You have a fat stomach and a fat head and a fat brain. No brain. You are, in fact, an ignoramus. There! I' m using your word. Get the hell out of here."

He made a mirthless grunt and pulled her arms behind her back. She felt the muscles ache with strain. He pressed his thumbs and then his hands tightly around her breasts. She thought she would faint with the pain.

" Take your hands off me, you buffoon. You ignoramus… You disgusting, meaningless paunch."

His hands tightened around her breasts and his knee pressed against her kidneys. She slid to the floor in agony. The man was insane with rage. He pulled his belt out of his pants and struck her hard across the stomach. She screamed with pain and then saw his bloated furious face. It was too contemptible to let that fool hear her screams for mercy.

" Stop!" she called to him. " Stop and come down here and love me. Fuck me! Fuck me! Don' t waste your strength beating me. I love your fat, sloppy belly. Press it on me." She opened her legs.

But the man had his belt lifted for another slash, and it landed forcefully on her chest. He seemed not to hear her, not to hear anything. The Neanderthal, the preliterate man, was insulted.

He got down on his knees beside her and roughly tore off her blouse. She thought that at last he was going to take her, then leave her with the few welts. He pulled her skirt off and she lay beside him covered only with a thin nylon bra and transparent panties. He ripped them off her body with his huge, hairless hands. The hands alone made him disgusting.

She moved her head and was sick on the rug. There was an immediate stench of putrefied gin and she was sick again. He leaned his head close to hers and she heard him say, " Bitch! Filthy, fucking bitch."

He stood up and looked long at her naked body where it lay limp next to the mess she' d made. He raised his leather belt and cut her thigh with a heavy stroke. He kicked her over with the pointed toe of his shoe and she felt her stomach slide against the puddle she had made.

She was suddenly sober now, sober and bruised and wanting to die. She felt the belt lacerate her back and she could not stop the trembling of her body. The belt whistled and fell again with his brute primitive strength. It slashed crazily into her white buttocks, and then up again to her neat waist. Sometimes it curled around to nip at the puffy pink flesh between her thighs. He hit her without direction, up and down her body, sometimes missing completely and pounding the rug beside her. She knew, from occasional returning echoes, that she was screaming for help and release. His arm waved frantically above her, and the leather made a swooshing sound before it planted itself against her skin.

There was a pause in the incessant beating, and then she heard the dimly familiar buzz of a sliding zipper. She waited to feel her body turned over, but he apparently enjoyed the network of red slashed on her bottom and back.

She crossed her arms in front of her and leaned her cheek against the soft upper arm, like a child asleep. The pain separated her from her body. She was nothing but a creature lying achingly in filth on the floor – a creature from a nightmare. Her face against her arm was wet with tears. How strange that she had cried. Her body had its habits of response, and a blow produced tears. But all the whipping had accomplished was to stop the buzzing in her cunt, and now he would take her when she had passed the threshold of feeling.

His hands grasped her belly and thigh. He was trying to lift her buttocks to a comfortable height. Business before pleasure. His thumbs pressed her scarred behind, and she jumped with pain.

She could still know more agony; she thought he had finished her.

His fingers crawled between her legs to her soft, dry pubic hairs. He kneaded the mound of sensitive flesh and she writhed in response. She tried to find her voice to insult him, preferring his enraged blows to his groping tenderness. But her voice belonged to her body, and neither belonged to her. His finger pierced the futile tension of her inner flesh. She could feel his knuckle scraping against her, measuring the capacity of her vagina. He grunted his excitement. Pig. Fat, knuckle- mad, cunt- mad pig. The words did not escape from her, and she thought with ecstasy, I' m afraid. Afraid of Mr. Pig, and her body crouched closer to the floor.

He lifted her higher with an angry and impatient gesture, and said, " Stay the way I put you, sister, if you want to live."

But she didn' t want to live, and she sank her body to the floor.

He slapped her hard across her inflamed buttocks and lifted her body in a high arch. This time it stayed that way for him, suspended like a Gothic doorway. Her body trembled in its taut position, and he kneeled behind her, relishing her discomfort. Finally, his passion exceeded his brief sadism and she felt him ram his stiff cock into her. He moved in and out against her motionless buttocks, gasping into the silent room.

" Ahh," he moaned. " You cunts are all alike. You love it when we get it in. You love it more than we do."

She dug her chin into her passive arm and offered him her still body.

" So I' m screwing a corpse," he laughed. " So I' m screwing a corpse."

His belly and balls slapped against her unresisting ass. Then he pumped faster and tighter into her, his prick swelling in her grasping envelope. She felt the pressure climb within her, and then he grabbed her belly and rocked frantically as he came. He came as if it would be the last time, every fuck the last time, and her heart chilled with detachment. He released her and she discovered her exhaustion. She sank into the rug and the room spun out of existence.

Her faint could have lasted only a few minutes, and she opened her eyes to his rampant pawing of her breasts and thighs and cunt. He was breathing his liquored breath against her neck and squeezing her with the ecstasy of possession.

" Feel that," he urged her. " Feel that."

She reached her hand behind her and found his stiff, eager prick with her palm.

" None of this one- shot business for old Charley," he gloated. " I' m gonna fuck you all night, sister. I' m good for another six rounds."

She began to cry her repugnance. With horror, she imagined that she would spend the rest of her life on the soiled rug, fainting and being taken by the insatiable boor, and fainting again. The room didn' t spin any more, and she was relentlessly sober. She pretended unconsciousness, but he continued to squeeze her body. Then he twisted her head and forced her mouth open. He pried at her teeth with drunken energy and howled vulgarly, " I' ll buy! This pony is good for another six fucks." He moved up and forced his cock into her mouth. He thrust in and out for a few minutes before letting it pop free.

" You' re a pig," she managed to whisper.

" What? I didn' t hear you baby. You think old Charley' s a pretty good lay? I been around. Used to having women getting on their knees for me to fuck them. Charley never leaves a lady in distress." He howled his American Legion laugh.

She was too scared to call him a pig again.

She moved her head to the side and saw a bottle of gin on the floor beside her. He had found her liquor cabinet. She heard him swallow and wondered if he would kill her.

He turned her over on her back and sat his fat ass on her stomach. " You' re the best little horse I ever bought. A real bucking mare." His prick was pointing to the ceiling, and he straddled her body and moved towards her mouth again. " Suck old Charley," he cajoled. " Be a good obedient mare and suck daddy Charley."

She closed her eyes as he pressed his ramrod into her lax mouth. She held it between her lips like a stubborn, spoiled child refusing to swallow his spinach. But good old Charley was undaunted. He pressed forward and back on her face, using her mouth as he had her cunt. He used her as he would a life- sized sponge with a few openings. But he was not a man for strenuous exercise, and he grew tired of his joggling motion.

Her eyes were still closed, and she opened them only when he lifted his body and lay beside her. His face and the whites of his eyes were delicately laced with red. He looked apoplectic, as if he might suddenly spit up all the blood in his head and die before her. She wished he would die. He seemed to pass out for a moment, and she realized how drunk he was. But his prick still stood high and urgent in the air. He came to with an impatient shaking of his head, got up and staggered about the room. She could not take her fascinated eyes off his stiff cock, which seemed to have an independently rigid life.

He rushed to her when he understood her mocking eyes, and seemed unsure of himself for the first time since he had removed his belt and beat her.

She lowered her eyes to his thin, frail, white, blue- veined legs that supported his enormous trunk and started to giggle at the horror, humiliation, and stupidity of the evening. He stood furious next to her and kicked her prostrate form. But the kick lacked the enthusiasm and conviction it had had one hour ago. He reached for the half- empty bottle of gin and put the thin neck of the bottle against his lips.

I must remember to throw the bottle away.

The hot liquor seemed to renew his assurance. " Get on your knees, you cunt," he commanded.

She looked at him with disdain, and he roughly twisted her body around. She lay flat, her knees, her thighs, her stomach, her flattened breasts, her shoulders and hair touching the carpet. He kneeled behind her and pulled her body into the arch he elected for fucking. She did not resist him, did not really acknowledge that he was there behind her.

" I' m gonna do something I' ve always wanted to do, baby. But I never met a slut I dared to do it with. I' m gonna dig so deep into your ass, you' ll taste my come on your tongue."

He slapped her blood- smeared buttocks, and without pause or warning, jabbed his prick into the narrow crevice between her buttocks. A remarkable pain inflamed her body and she screamed. He laughed wildly and smashed his cock into her rear again, the pain intensifying with each push of his body. She began to rotate her hips wildly to make him come by the next thrust. But he had the hard control of a drunk and he thumped into her narrow hole with shrieks of pleasure. He reached his hand around her jumping hips and felt for her cunt. It was dry – a desert of despair. His fingers found her shrunken clitoris, and he grubbily massaged it. To her shock, she felt the drops of sensuality flowing onto his fingertips. She could not be sure if her body was moving with terror or desire. He raised the stubborn dot of clitoris and pinched it cruelly. Her body was a flame of pain from her waist to her tired knees. He smashed against her, forcing her chin roughly to the rug. His free hand found the nipple of one hanging breast. His nails were like teeth against the stiff red flesh. Her body sang its captivity, and she swung eagerly against him. His hands busily tensed her nipples and cunt. Then he lunged into her with a final howl and removed his hands without warning. Her abused body thumped to the ground. His prick was shrinking inside her as he released a final spurt of sperm, and the smoky liquid seemed to flow to her tongue. Her mouth was full of the taste of him, and with a terrible moan of defeat, she came.

He was motionless beside her, and she saw that he had really passed out. He looked dead. She lay gasping for breath for a few minutes, and then swallowed a mouthful of the raw gin. It slid hot down her chest and gave her an instant' s strength. She shook the lifeless form. He did not respond at all. She kicked him hard with her foot, but he was deeply, profoundly unconscious. The hated face was turned up with impotent calm. Instead of the vicious attacker he had been to her, he resembled a stupefied whale. She remembered her body' s deceit and kicked him in disgust. She wanted to get into her bed and sleep, sleep for a hundred hours. But she could not sleep with this senseless bulk on the studio floor.

Gloria walked to her bathroom and washed her tear- stained, sickstained face. She took a paisley dressing gown off the door hook and moved her pained body into it. The robe stuck to her hips and buttocks, and she knew that the blood he had drawn was still flowing. She brushed her hair from her face and caught it at the nape of her neck with a tortoise shell clip. Her face was fatigued and bruised, but younger than it had been in the morning. She was not thinking of the rapist, not thinking of anything but getting that bulk off the living room floor.

She walked back to him, to find him still stretched out, motionless and stupid. Some spittle ran down the corner of his chin, and he snored with a wet, gurgling sound. She reached down and took him by his two bare feet. His huge shape formed its own fulcrum, and she turned him like a top toward the door.

She opened the hall door and made sure that the house was still and empty. With tremendous effort, she pulled his body into the hall; it was naked and ludicrous in the tiled dark passage. She did not want his sprawling form snoring outside her apartment, so she dragged him down the steps feet- first to the second- story landing. His head jumped with a hollow sound at each step.

You' re going to miss your train, Charley. You may never run to catch another train.

She left him on the second floor and dashed noiselessly up to her apartment. The door was standing open. She grabbed his underwear, his shoes and socks, pants and jacket, shirt and tie, and holding them wide in her arms, rushed to the landing where he lay. He was covered with spit, his penis little and pink on his thigh. She dropped the clothes on his unconscious figure and rushed quickly to the fourth floor. She slammed the door behind her and nervously latched the safety lock. She breathed in hysterical little gasps and putting her palm automatically to her forehead, found it burning with fever. Well, I' m sick, she thought. I' ve been trying to die, but I' ve only managed to get sick. For the first time, she did not think of her search for the white- eyed violator. All she wanted was to get her throbbing body between the sheets of her bed.

She walked towards the bedroom and saw the bottle of gin lying empty on its side. Next to the bottle was Charley' s belt. She had not noticed it in her mad grab for his clothes. She picked the belt up and studied it. It was long, to circle his ridiculous girth. There were six holes on the pointed end of the belt, and a silver buckle that was initialed C. D. on the other side. The leather was worn shiny, and it was stained with blood where it had struck her.

A well- earned souvenir. I' ll keep Charley' s belt as a souvenir.

She dragged herself tiredly to bed, holding onto the belt as if for support with both hands.

CHAPTER VIII

That night Gloria had a dream. It was exact in every detail and went back eleven years to her adolescence. Her brain had retained a photographic image of the school she had gone to, the clothes she had worn, the length of her hair, the feel of her shoes, the smell and color of the school corridors. In the dream, she went to a moment she had never left. She walked out of her geometry class into the studentfilled corridor without a glimmer of the years that followed. So this walk would exist forever. Every act was a final one. She went from geometry to the lunchroom, as was her habit. The clock said five minutes to twelve, which was the right time. In the cafeteria, she moved surely to the table where she ate her lunch every day. She opened the brown paper bag she held and saw that her mother had prepared sandwiches from last night' s roast lamb. It was what she had expected for lunch… or had her mother told her? Gloria bit into the dark bread and a blob of ketchup fell on the table. She knew that the red stain made her a criminal, that her body was no longer innocent. She chewed her sandwich methodically. At ten minutes to one, she would have to be in music class. The music teacher had a red wig and was very sensitive about lateness. She must have had a boyfriend who was twenty years late in calling. Someone said, " Hello, Gloria," and she looked up see Margaret moving into the chair opposite her.

She hated Margaret. Once she had touched Margaret' s small breast, and Margaret had laughed and said, " Your hand is hot and sticky." There was something disgusting in Margaret' s mocking knowledge. She knew all about babies and men and kissing, and once had described how some men put their tongues in girls' mouths, and that was called a " soul kiss." Gloria had become faint with nausea.

" Couldn' t a person choke?" she' d asked.

" You breathe through your nose, stupid," Margaret had replied. But the answer said much more. It said, " I know a secret, Gloria. I' ve learned all the things you have to learn, if you can. And look at me; I can take it. Can you take it? Can you accept the things you have to learn?"

Gloria wanted to say, " I can; I can. It' s all going to happen to me."

Margaret' s adolescent face was secretive when she said, " Oh, here he comes."

Darting in and out of the labyrinth of tables and chairs was a tall, dark- haired, dark- jacketed man. He reached their table and sat quietly beside Margaret. He turned disinterested white eyes on Gloria, and her heart smothered in agony.

Margaret turned to Gloria with old eyes in her young face.

" Have you met my future husband?" she asked. Her thin, unformed body did not make the announcement ridiculous.

" No," said Gloria, and her agony was visible. " How do you do."

The white- eyed rapist nodded to her without taking his eyes off Margaret. Margaret turned to him and said perfunctorily, " Sit down and stop staring at me. My God, Gloria, I get the feeling he doesn' t know how to breathe unless he stares right into my eyes."

Gloria looked at the sullen- shaped mouth of the rapist. His eyes were lowered and expressed the sadness of a rebuffed child.

How do you do it? Gloria wanted to ask. How do you enslave the man who refuses even to detest me?

She tried to relax into her own sorrow, to relinquish her pain to her body, to feel it so completely that she would not feel it at all. She lifted a container of milk to her lips, and her trembling hands spilled the milk over the table.

" My, my," Margaret chided, " I believe Gloria is upset. Gloria is very sensitive, rapist," and she turned to the motionless man. For the first time his face altered the expression of slavish devotion he reserved for Margaret. His mouth shaped into a mocking cruel smile. He took Margaret' s hand in his and kissed it. Gloria felt herself melting into her mind' s contortions.

" I think Gloria is in love with you," Margaret continued. " Isn' t that romantic? That' s why I' m marrying you darling, so that I can play with Gloria' s dreams."

The rapist who had not spoken, seemed to say, " Do with me what you will."

Margaret leaned over and whispered something to him. He laughed out loud. She whispered it again, and more urgently. Gloria heard her say, " Kiss her that way."

The rapist got up and moved around the table to Gloria' s chair. He took her head in his hands and pulled it back till her lips were raised to his.

" Do you want to?" Gloria pleaded. " It' s all right if you want to."

His tongue was stopping her words, cutting her breath.

" You breathe through your nose, stupid," Margaret directed. " He' s pretty good at that. I think I' ll hire him out. Rapist, I think I' ll hire you out."

Gloria could no longer hear her; she was choking under his icy unloving caress. She did not have the courage to push him away, so great was her body' s yearning. She sank into his mouth, and Margaret' s laugh. She sank deeper and deeper into a smothering humiliation – the pain beyond tears or flesh. The laughter grew vague. She opened her eyes and found herself panting against the pillow.

She was motionless in her bed for a long time. Her heartbeat settled to an unheard rhythm. The dream was more terrible than her ugly search for the rapist. There was still a more sickening poison within her than the one she had tasted the night of the rape. Would her suffering one day have to equal the dream? Wanting him was a torture, but to be mocked for it would make her insane. For him to prefer another would be an unbearable insult. Then his death would not be enough. It would be too late, too meaningless for him to die. She had to kill him for something that existed between the two of them, not only for the rage in her own heart. She had to kill him because he wanted to die; the rape was an invitation to murder.

She had despised and feared Margaret all of these years. If they met, they would have a civilized lunch and talk fondly of the old days. There would be a mutual contract to deceive.

There is an agony that a man cannot give us. Only a woman who shares our airless dungeon can fill us with final despair. When we cut at each other, we know our futility. A man can make a woman feel like a woman. That' s when they achieve us. But a woman can make a woman feel like nothing – like a shapeless, sexless, mute animal. That' s how we destroy each other.

CHAPTER IX

She looked at the clock on the dressing table and saw that it was two o' clock. The sun poured in through the open windows, and she wanted nothing to do with the sun.

Her skin stuck to the sheets where the blood had congealed during the night. Her slightest motion opened the wounds. She touched her jaws and mouth, and found her face tender and swollen. She reached to the bedside table for the hand mirror. She stared long at her reflection. Her eyes were dark- rimmed, but peaceful. Her mouth was split and bruised. It would be difficult to speak, but there was nothing she wanted to say. Thank God she was sick. It was a welcome reprieve; now she could offer herself the devotions due an invalid. The sickness of her mind had at last conquered her body. The fever that would register on the thermometer would entitle her to rest. The next best thing to love was rest. The next best thing to rest was death. The rapist was not important. The welts rising on her back – that was her true concern. At last, her body was a fitting prison. The pain of her flesh equaled the pain in her heart, balancing and finally negating the untouchable torment.

She remembered the heap of naked flesh that she had dragged to the second floor landing. It was two o' clock; he must be gone by now. Had one of the tenants found him sprawled clumsily in his own sweat? He seemed a timid man, except for the drunken beating he' d administered. Probably when sober he would recall the evening with shame. She didn' t think he' d repeat the visit. Possibly one night, drunk and hot, he would. But she didn' t particularly hate him. He had proved a valuable executioner. The leather belt was still in the bed beside her. C.D. Charles the Divine. The room was comforting and familiar, and she lay back in a curious repose.

She was too sore to bathe; she could barely sponge her face. She put fresh sheets on the bed and then put on a pair of starched cotton pajamas. The house was in a disorder that upset her, upset the feeling of tenuous calm. But solutions, this free afternoon, were everywhere. She called the maid service and then got into bed with a book.

She got up from the bed and found a woolen shawl that she wrapped around her shoulders. It was too warm, but she wanted the comforts of illness. She did not wait for the rapist, but seemed to wait for her mother to walk into her bedroom with a tray of orange juice and tea and thinly sliced toast. She recalled the love her mother had showered on her when she was sick. It was worth the aches to hear the hushed voices outside her door… to be coaxed into tasting the delicious dull food.

Gloria heard the key turning in the lock and she knew that the maid had arrived. The woman poked her head into the bedroom and announced herself.

" Anything special you want done, Miss Gloria?"

" No," said Gloria. " Please just clean up the mess."

The maid stepped into the room. She looked closely at Gloria. " Why, you' re sick," she said sympathetically.

" Yes, very," Gloria sighed contentedly.

" Shall I call the doctor for you?"

" I' ll be all right," Gloria assured her. " I just need a few days' rest."

The woman remained staring at her. Finally, she said in a choked voice, " Who did it to you?"

" I did it to myself," Gloria explained.

The woman had an aged cynicism. " It' s pretty hard to blacken your own jaw."

" It was very difficult. But if you try very hard, you can manage anything."

The maid started to walk out of the room. Her shoulders shrugged disapproval.

" Oh, please," Gloria called her back, " can I have a tray with orange juice and lemon tea and a few slices of toast?"

" I' ll get it for you first thing," the maid promised, and seemed to like Gloria better for the request. She knew how to act towards children afflicted with the flu. Gloria had a seven- year- old' s expression etched peaceably on her face.

Gloria leaned back on the crisp pillows and opened a Joseph Conrad novel. It began, " He was an inch, perhaps two under six feet, powerfully built, and he advanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders…" It was relaxing to sink into someone else' s imagination. Hers was limited. The only light in her world came from two white eyes. She turned the page and did not notice the maid entering with the tray. The tea steamed through the nozzle of the teapot. The lemon was sliced thin and yellow in the cup. She saw that the maid had placed a small dish of strawberry preserves and a few round chocolate cookies on the tray. The childlike kindness filled her eyes with tears. The woman was pathetically concerned.

" Here, here," she soothed, " you' ll soon feel better."

" I feel wonderful." She was surprised by her emotion- cracked voice.

" You' re a very brave girl," the woman reassured.

Gloria could not bear the automatic affection.

" Would you turn the radio on?" she asked.

She decided to listen to a thick, impassioned Edith Piaf. The French accent was as tragic as the defeated lyrics of the song.

Maybe I' ll go to Paris, Gloria speculated. After I kill him, I' ll go to Paris.

She heard the vacuum cleaner buzzing under the chairs and tables in the living room. She loved the apartment being cleaned.

This is what the people around me have been doing. They' ve been resting, sitting in soft chairs and repeating familiar sensations. I want to rest, too, when he' s dead. Then I' ll rest.

Joseph Conrad carried her into the pride of heroes, and she dozed in the warm room. When she awoke, dusk was falling heavy and quiet in the streets. Her terrible aloneness that had been her peace, assaulted her. The maid had left the flat clean and empty as a stage set.

Gloria wandered into her studio. The ashtrays were sparkling on the tables. The few drops of paint that had stained the floor were scraped away. The immaculate room mocked her, " No one lives here anymore."

She walked hastily to her paints and squeezed some crimson pigment on her pallet. She mixed the paint with her spatula and spilled the paint, in drops, on the waxed floor. She pushed her bare toes into the paint and smeared it frantically along the floor and onto the white wall. Then she got down on her knees and stupidly rubbed the paint over her pajamas, then pulled them off and rubbed the pigment into her unhealed flesh. She was crying, lamenting her brief succor of rest. She rubbed the paint into her cunt; her pubic hairs became flaming and heavy. She reached to press her red palms against her cheeks. The fellows are crazy for the lady in red…

The doorbell rang. It continued persistently.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

" One minute, please," she called.

The jangling sound brought her down to earth. She poured turpentine on a white cloth and rapidly wiped the paint off her body, hands and face. She gathered up her pajamas and dropped them into the bathroom hamper. Then she took her paisley robe and belted it around her waist. Her face in the mirror was swollen, less swollen than it had been in the afternoon, and strangely serene. She hoped, now that her head was calmer, that her visitor was not the rapist. It seemed the greatest deceit that someone else had beaten her. The rapist would not object to signs of another man' s love on her, because he did not love her. But she was his to destroy.

She opened the door and Laura was there opening her bag, fumbling for one of her eternal cigarettes. It was a relief to her that Laura was breaking the nervous solitude of her evening.

" Come in," she said. " I' m glad to see you."

Laura studied her face with alarm. " Christ!" she said. She looked behind Gloria' s shoulder and saw the unmade bed through the opened door. " Get back into bed," she urged. Gloria was feeling dizzy from the few minutes on her feet, and she hurried under the protecting blankets.

Laura looked confused and unhappy. " What happened to you?" she asked.

" I fell off a horse," Gloria told her.

" I' ll bet you did."

" Well, I had a frisky gentleman caller."

" My God. Is it anyone I know? He should be arrested or shot," Laura said.

" No," Gloria explained. " It' s somebody nobody knows. He' s just about getting an introduction to himself. I made him a little angry."

" Angry?"

" He was very sensitive, and I called him an ox, or something like that."

" Gloria," Laura said, " I don' t want to go on as if you' re on the couch and I' m not, but you' re not trying to get killed are you? I mean, I can perfectly well understand the decision, but it doesn' t seem fair to make someone else do the dirty work."

" Why, you cunning girl," Gloria said with distaste. " How did you guess? You didn' t nearly use up your twenty questions."

" I' m sorry," Laura smiled. " I suppose I' m trying to get knocked off myself, going around with my juicy welcome insights. I just think this is a pretty insane world, and I get a kick out of taking informal surveys."

Gloria studied Laura' s face – her mousy hair, cut like a boy' s, a thin mouth that could look like a thread when she was thinking or angry. But her eyes bulged with an eagerness and warmth that made her face seem compassionate and lovely. Laura' s face was always pale and a few thin blue veins were transparent in her temples and forehead. She came from an inbred Boston family and had a starchy dry elegance. But her aloofness was only a part of her family inheritance, and she voraciously befriended the penetrators of her manner. Along with her family looks, she had inherited enough money to support a very artistic husband. He made sculpture and she made him. Laura always looked breathless and overworked; her heart constantly quickened with her husband Christopher' s infidelities. He always came back to her, and after four years of marriage, neither of them knew if he returned for the convenience of her bank account or the comfort of her unquenchable love.

Laura lit another cigarette with a burning butt, and then tucked the blanket under the mattress. She was disastrously neat and tried not to show that she was tucking the sheet in with hospital corners. Gloria watched her feverish and disjointed movements.

" How is Christopher?" she asked.

" Christopher is fine." Laura' s voice was tight.

" Is he sculpting?"

" Oh, yes. Christopher is absolutely undaunted."

" Well, he' s got plenty of energy," Gloria said.

" Last week," Laura continued, not stopping for Gloria' s words, " he did a Henry Moore. It had a really magnificent hole in it."

Gloria laughed.

" The night he finished it," Laura leaned back in her chair, " he felt faint tremors of failure. But just at the crucial moment, he saw my nail file and got an important idea for a Brancusi."

" You' re too harsh, Laura," Gloria warned.

" No, no," Laura insisted. " I mean that' s all I have, to know what Christopher really is. My ounce of truth. If I ever woke up one morning and looked at his work and thought, ' Christopher is a genius,' I' d hang myself."

" Christopher," Gloria suggested, " has very good taste in sculpture."

" Sure," Laura agreed. " He' s a connoisseur. That' s because he isn' t even good enough to be mediocre. Really, you think I' m vindictive, but Christopher couldn' t sculpt a faithful horse or a southern general or a convincing wreath."

" Well," Gloria said, to keep the conversation unhysterical, " I think that Christopher could use a little life study. I mean just work from a model for a few months."

" I thought so, too," Laura said dryly.

" So?"

" So I convinced Christopher to get a model for a few hours a day."

" Oh."

" Oh, yes. So now Christopher gets her services for nothing. In fact, he' s living with her. He can study from morning to night. She may succeed where I' ve failed. She may make a great artist of him." Laura began to cry.

Gloria looked silently at the miserable girl. She understood the torment of choosing the one object, of wanting the one man. She knew how the world emptied to make room for the one enormous figure of the disinterested. She also felt, lying bruised on her bed, that the whole game was a monotonously programmed circus. The wanted and unwanted, the necessary and unnecessary; and too often nothing more necessary than the unwanted and nothing more unnecessary than the wanted. She thought of Christopher and Laura, how violently they stimulated each other into aliveness. Laura with her love for Christopher, and Christopher with his love for the woman on the other side of the street. She knew that if Laura lost Christopher and recovered – and of course, she would recover – she would find another Christopher; that her husband' s piddling conquests were meaningless to him without the tortured balm of Laura' s tears.

" It' s ridiculous," Laura sobbed. " I know I' m ridiculous."

" No, of course not," Gloria soothed.

" I' m the only woman to take him seriously. He builds his prison cell and his comfort out of my love. That' s what makes it all ludicrous. You know what I think of Christopher. I think he' s beautiful. Sometimes I feel myself choking when he' s in the room with me. I think he' s precious and beautiful and fine and courageous."

" Then he is beautiful for you," Gloria answered. Laura' s love cutting deeply, wounding her as the clever and cutting evaluation of Christopher' s talent had not touched her. Yes, she thought, love has more pain than hate.

" I love him. I love him so much," Laura sobbed.

" I know. We' re all good at that."

" What do you mean? Do you know what I suffer?

" Yes, we' re good at that, too."

" Why do you sound so bitter?" Laura demanded. " Why are you angry that we love?"

" Because that' s all we know how to do and we do it so stupidly."

" We can do other things."

" What? What can we do? We can' t do the one important thing. We can' t let anybody love us."

" That' s not true. I pray that Christopher loves me."

" You fool." Gloria was enraged. " We' re all fools. We can' t accept love. Never. We want to be the victims, to be the worshippers. We want to be our master' s master and our slave' s slave. We' re falling all over each other racing to see who can fall lower. That' s what we want… to idolize… that' s what we call our love… never, never to be known."

" What does knowing have to do with it? You make no sense," Laura interrupted.

" The whole problem is one of knowing. To be loved we must be known, discovered. That' s the unforgivable intrusion… to let somebody in. We all cherish our sharp, ingrown secret weapons we use to fight off the invaders who dare to love us. We pick an impossible creature and we kneel prostrate at his kicking feet and implore him to love us while we hide our face and give him a distorted torture mask."

" We have a right to find that love," Laura whispered.

" But we' ll never find it," Gloria screamed. " That' s what' s so appallingly pathetic. We' ll never find it. It doesn' t exist. It' s a fantasy, a punished child' s dream."

" Why do you say that? We' ll find it. I know we' ll find it."

" Where? In your dead mother' s arms? You think this horse opera we carry on is love? To find one fighting, resistant man and try to devour him?"

" I just want to be near Christopher."

" You liar. Is near ever enough? We need to swallow them, to chew them into delicate chunks and swallow them. A foot apart is too terrible for us. I may never do it," Gloria continued, " but at least I know that the way to love a man is to let him be separate. To let him live, out there, in his private threatening world. To let him have a thought not manufactured in our own want- mad brains. I don' t know if I can ever do it," Gloria' s voice was a wail, " but that' s the way, I' m sure."

Laura was upset. " If Christopher loved me, if I was sure he loved me, I' d let him be separate."

" My God," repeated Gloria, " how hopeless. The more closed in we are, the more skillful we are at picking the prisoner to love. The locked- up men, the sentenced men. Sentenced to find women like us, women who can fall lower than they, women the convicts can never love."

" My adoration is making me ugly," Laura mused. " Christopher can do anything he wants with me, and when this happens to a woman she is hideous. Look at me; I' m a shadow. I' m one of Christopher' s mediocre statues, waiting patiently for him to chip an expression onto my face. Oh God, I know I bore him."

" Don' t torture yourself," Gloria begged. " In many ways your love for Christopher makes you more beautiful. You have sacrifice on your face, and that is a kind of beauty."

" Sacrifice!" Laura snapped with contempt. " Sacrifice to whom and for what? To Christopher, the modern girl' s surest lay? What do I sacrifice? My sanity? My pride? To be fucked by my husband when he comes home for a rest from fucking somebody else?"

" Pride has nothing to do with it," Gloria said. " And you know it' s not for the fuck. You' d live with Christopher in absolute celibacy for twenty years, if he' d just stay with you."

" That' s cruel, Gloria."

" No, no, no. Listen to me. I don' t mean it to be cruel. Don' t hear in my words some lousy pat definition of married love. It' s not the fuck. We tell ourselves it' s the fuck because it justifies us. It' s a simple little test that everybody understands… but it' s not true. Does Christopher have some magic in his prick? Or is the magic in you? Why can the other women give him up so easily? Christopher' s been given up by more women than they have birth control pills. It' s something else Christopher does to you. He enters a secret chasm in your heart, or psyche, I don' t know. But once he enters, he lives there. Christopher walks about in you as if you were a house without doors."

" But why can' t I walk about in Christopher? Do you realize, Gloria, what he is? Yes, I say he' s beautiful, because when I say he' s not, the suffering is worse. That makes me not only insane, but a fool. But Christopher is so weak, so inexcusably, fragilely, stupidly weak. He needs me to be accused of the things he can' t do. Christopher wouldn' t want so many women without me sitting at home suffering his infidelities. He runs to me the way he would to a mother, proudly singing, ' Momma, I had a good fuck.' And I' m suppose to sign the report card and promote him into another class."

" You' re right, Laura, and you know it. Are they just going to sit in your head like stinking Chinese eggs? Or are they going to change your life with Christopher?"

Laura sat quietly for a full minute. She lit another cigarette, striking five matches before the tobacco flamed, and released the smoke in her mouth.

" My knowledge of Christopher has been putrefying in my head for a long time."

" Please," Gloria said, as the tears rolled wet on Laura' s face. " Please, please, please…" and she could not say, " Don' t weep. Free yourself." Because the freedom was not in Laura.

" A few times when Christopher left me, I felt, well, that I was finally finished with him. When he flew to California with that idiot starlet, then called me from Los Angeles to tell me that he felt with pleasure every inch of the three thousand miles that separated us, I almost didn' t care. I mean, it just passed endurance, and I didn' t feel anything. I thought it was over."

" You had an affair with Carl then, didn' t you?" Gloria said.

" Yes. It was the first and only affair I' ve had since I' ve been married. And it really was quite nice. Carl is warm and sweet and attentive."

Gloria winced. " Quite nice. How you must have hated it."

" No. I wasn' t hating it. I wasn' t feeling it. I wasn' t feeling anything. That' s what terrifies me. That my life without Christopher will be a long, painless nothing."

" But then you weren' t really over Christopher."

" Who knows. I don' t know. I didn' t think of him. I didn' t dream of him. I didn' t rush to the movies to see his starlet perform. It was the only time since I' ve known Christopher that I' ve let him out of my head. But nothing came in to take his place. I was stupefied for six months."

" Another six months might have done it. Another six months and you might have loved somebody else."

" I don' t know. You see, Christopher came back. When he knocked at the door, and I opened it, I knew that I had been waiting for him for six months."

" We have more stamina than that," Gloria said. " You wouldn' t have waited forever. A few more months and you might have opened the door to a stranger."

" The day I stopped waiting, I would start decaying. Yes, I can see my skin growing moldy. I can feel the tissues of my flesh turning to water."

" But, my God," Gloria cried, " why are we talking? Why do we bother to repeat our third rate, monstrous tragedies to each other? Look at me. I' m beaten up, bleeding and black and blue. Is this my statement? Is this the total of my expression? What right do you have to say you' d decay? Why do we find the words if we want to stay in the cave? You have no right not to live more happily. You have no right to give your intelligence and will and body and goals and yesterday and tomorrow and now to Christopher."

" Rights," mocked Laura. " As if there were any rights. You had no right to be beaten, and the man had no right to beat you. But you were both fit only for the cave."

" Then what are we waiting for?" Gloria lamented. " Why don' t we die now, kill ourselves? Group suicides. If we lurk in the cave, we' re not living. We died three million years ago."

" But," said Laura, " we' ve seen a bit of light."

" What are you talking about?"

" We' ve seen the light of victory. I' m waiting, yes. I' m waiting for Christopher. I want him to look at me and see that I' m beautiful and valuable. And that day I' llbe beautiful and valuable. And maybe that day I' ll leave him, or that day we' ll really get married. But I want that day. I can live for it."

" When will Christopher see that you' re beautiful?"

" When I am."

" I tell you you' re beautiful now."

" And I don' t hear you."

Gloria leaned back on the pillows. " I hate your waiting," she said. " It disgusts me."

Laura pushed her boyish hair behind her ears. " I have given so much pain and love and hate to Christopher. More than to anyone in the world in my life. And I want one day for him to feel it. It will make my wait not a wait, but a process. A dawning of love."

" Can Christopher feel you?"

" Not now."

" I live in the now. Tomorrow is just too much of a chance for me."

" If I felt that," Laura paused and spoke slowly, " I would kill Christopher."

" Kill him?" said Gloria with interest.

" Yes. If Christopher will never come to me, I want him to die."

" It would be better," said Gloria, " if you just decided to live. That might be the same as Christopher' s dying. He might even come to you then, and you' d find out he was dead!"

" That' s why I' d kill him," said Laura. She laughed foolishly. " I don' t want to be disappointed."

" Maybe he' ll come to you," Gloria murmured.

" Shall we have some dinner?" Laura asked. She clumsily moved the conversation away from the area that whispered, " It might not happen. Christopher may never be yours!"

" Yes," agreed Gloria. " There are some eggs and bacon in the refrigerator, and a can of soup in the pantry.

Laura walked into the kitchen and Gloria heard her banging the refrigerator door shut. Then, lying back, she heard the bacon sizzling and tried to remember the words she had said. They had nothing to do with the rapist. But that was different. The rapist was not to be her life – she was killing him to live. But she had said to Laura, " It would be better if you just decided to live." Afterwards, perhaps. First her vengeance, and then a life out of the caves. Laura was not waiting for vengeance, but for love. That was why she was doomed. We can' t wait for love, but can only create it out of the present with the imperfect feelings sifted to us through a gnarled tree of family. I must be insane, reasoned Gloria. Laura lives what she speaks, and so do I. Except for the one enraged thorn in my flesh that demands his death. I am insane now, and the words I speak come out of a well tutored yesterday. I' m the most savage waiter of all… waiting for death.

Laura came back into the bedroom. She had washed her face, but fresh tears were staining her cheeks.

" I wish I were beautiful to him. I wish I looked like a Hollywood starlet."

" If I were beautiful, I' d torture him. I' d fuck his father and his brother and his best friend." Gloria seemed in a trance.

" I just want to be what he wants. I don' t care about anything else. About freedom, or soul, or truth, or…" Laura laughed, " beauty."

Gloria moved her head to look at Laura. " Kill him," she commanded.

The two women shared the moment, and Laura shrugged her shoulders nervously and said, " Let' s be a bit serious. Actually I came here to ask you if you' d like to spend a week at Fire Island. It' s warm enough now, and the cottage is in good shape."

Maybe he' s on Fire Island, Gloria thought. I pray to God I find him there…

" Kill him," she repeated to Laura. " Don' t wait for him. Kill him."

CHAPTER X

Fire Island is close to New York City – quite close and quite chic. Not chic the way it once was, but it still attracted the cityimprisoned artists and writers and advertising executives and publicity hawks. They rushed every weekend to Fire Island to run as innocently as Polynesian primitives along the white beaches and the rough Atlantic surf. But though they conspicuously took off their shoes and walked the wooden- planked streets of the island, they brought their insulated " aren' t- we- having- a- good- time?" attitudes with them. And they had a very good time; the thousands of empty gin bottles were proof. The men wore faded jeans and bared their white smoke- choked chests to the air. Some of the men on the island were very beautiful. They lived from resort to resort, exciting the men and women with the exposed confidence of their muscles.

The women wore pants or designer shorts. Skirts were taboo on the island. The shape of their legs and Fifth Avenue fashion decreed the length and tightness of the pants. Sometimes they were rolled ruggedly over the thighs. Their shorts often were cut high enough to show the subtle crease where the thighs swelled into buttocks and the front of their shorts V' d into their loins. V marked the spot. These women cruised the island looking for bulls. They were too anxious to have a good time to be disappointed. If a man showed his horn, they were convinced. And they played a voluptuous game, pretending they could gore each other.

There was practically no electricity on the island, no cars, no paved roads, no buildings made of steel, and no stairs that reached up to great heights. The island insisted on simplicity. The houses were open to the sea and the islanders' feet felt the sand- grit on the floors, their bodies felt it between the sheets, and their teeth felt it in the hamburger.

There were about six separate communities on the island. In each section there had settled a different perversion, tortured by the anonymity and accusations of the big city. Here the lesbians took off their tight secretarial skirts and high heels, and did revengeful dances. The faggots took off their city manners and hugged each other in the silent sand dunes, loving and screaming and being jealous and crying and drinking, and getting on the Sunday night boat for home.

They had to supply a city identity on the let' s- be- childrenagain island. Where are you from? And what do you do? And oh, you were at that party, too. I don' t remember seeing you there. But once everybody knew who everybody else was, then it was all right to fuck with child- like joy.

The island was shaped like a floating penis, eight times as long as wide, tapering to a bulbous end. There was the Atlantic cooling one side of the narrow stretch of land, and a bay filled with docked yachts on the other. A ferry traveled every few hours from Long Island, depositing gritty vacationers on the shore, and the same ferry took them back, drunk and sunburned.

To get to Fire Island they caught the train at Pennsylvania Station or drove to Amityville where the ferry would be waiting.

Gloria and Laura drove to Long Island in Laura' s small convertible. They kept the top of the car down and let the wind have its way with their hair. They looked young and carefree, speeding down the fast highway, and they spoke about dresses and Gloria' s coming exhibit. They scrupulously avoided mentioning Christopher. Laura had carefully donned her best New England reserve and it was obvious that she could not bear to mention Christopher' s name. But her silence enveloped them in her husband' s perseverance, and the motor of the car hummed " Christopher," and the water at the left rippled the same sound. Gloria' s face had lost its swollen contours, and she leaned back on the cool leather seat and felt happy to be leaving the city. It is difficult, she realized, to live all year in the city. Especially, when you' re used to big houses and lots of space. She hadn' t sensed how closed in she was until they' d driven over the bridge and seen the trees and lawns she' d grown up with.

" It' s good to get out of the city, isn' t it?" She turned to Laura.

" God, yes," Laura answered conventionally. " Sometimes I think I' ll just choke if I don' t get some air in my lungs."

Gloria was bored with the familiar patter. " It isn' t so bad in the winter. But in the spring and summer, you just have to get away."

" I' m sure," Laura responded, " we' ll feel much better when we get into bathing suits and dive into the water."

That was the wrong thing to say. They were supposed to feel magnificent now. Gloria lit a cigarette.

" Let' s go swimming as soon as the boat docks," she suggested. " It shouldn' t be much after five."

" Leon is giving a cocktail party," Laura reminded her.

" Christ," said Gloria. " He' s been there all winter giving cocktail parties. Doesn' t he know how to do anything else?"

" Leon is nice."

It was obvious that Laura was hating Gloria for the broken words that she had spoken to her a few nights before. It was because of the Glorias of the world that she wanted Christopher so desperately – to show them they were all wrong. To prove that she had something private and wonderful with Christopher that none of them could see. Had Gloria fucked Christopher?

Gloria, sitting beside Laura, studied the tense, drawn look of her companion. She knew that Christopher had not been heard from since his liaison with the model. Then she saw a twitch of hate on Laura' s mouth, and a message came to her with frightening clarity. She wanted to say, " Laura, I never had Christopher. There has never been anything between us." But she knew how insulting that would be, how clearly that would declare, " Christopher is public property."

They got to Amityville at a quarter to three – perfect timing, because the boat was leaving at three o' clock. They would be on the island earlier than they had expected – four o' clock at the latest. That would leave plenty of time for a long swim. Gloria was happy about that. There was a lot of city living to wash clean in the ocean.

The white houses of Amityville gleamed brightly in the sun. The two- story wooden houses were fronted with green grass and cultivated flowers. They looked very safe and very civilized.

The residents of Amityville hurried into their homes when the ferry loaded to cross the channel. She could feel them pulling back starched curtains, and staring at the slightly disgusting voyagers. They heard tales about the island, and worried about the proximity of their children to the debauchery. They resented the intruders, with all the small- town hate they could muster for the " summer people" – clumsy aliens who stepped on the lawns and got too brown in the sun.

The boat was half- filled, and more cars were driving up all the time. Gloria and Laura left the car in the expensive parking lot, minding wordlessly the rise in prices that marked every vacation. The car would wait there until they returned.

Gloria walked the plank and dropped onto the deck of the boat. She had a small weekend case in her hand that held pajamas, shorts, matador pants, two shirts, a bra, panties, and a bathing suit. That was enough for a week.

She felt the boat rocking under her feet – an exhilarating sensation. The New York pavement shook every nerve in your body, and the gentle sea reminded her that there were some experiences that Man had not created, could not tamper with. Just an old nature girl at heart, she scoffed, knowing that within a week she would be hungry for a badly- lit bar or even a bus ride. I wonder, she thought, if the rapist likes the water. Was he always there in her head, sharing and damaging every moment?

She walked to the top deck of the boat and sat on the bench that circled the railing. She turned backwards on the bench and stuck her feet through the bottom railing. She leaned her arms on the top bar and watched the silver- specked chopping of the bay. She flicked her cigarette overboard and could see it, a pale ghost sinking through the water. Laura sat down next to her and seemed to loose her tension as she breathed deeply. Maybe I could tell her now. Maybe she' d accept that I never tasted her precious husband' s prick.

Laura twisted in her seat and faced the water with Gloria.

" It is wonderful. It' s embarrassing to say it every week, but it is wonderful, isn' t it?"

" It makes you realize," Gloria helped, " that we live in an awfully small world, knocking our heads against television antennas over one paltry little man."

Laura laughed. " Paltry is hardly the word. But maybe we have paltry heads. Maybe that' s why they knock so easily."

" I never thought of that," Gloria reflected. " I' m glad I never thought of that. It' s rather depressing."

" I' m stupid to say this," Laura relinquished her firm selfcontrol, " but often, when I come someplace very lovely, and enjoy it, like here and now, I hate Christopher' s not being with me. It' s as though I' m enjoying it half as much as I could. And knowing about the other half really makes it worse than nothing. I' m sorry to say this," she quickly added. " I don' t mean to punish you with my marital problems," and her voice was sarcastic, " all week."

Don' t try so hard, Gloria wanted to say. Don' t think for a minute that just because you' re not screaming like a madwoman you don' t know you' re suffering. Instead she said, " Laura, please don' t be too brave with me. That' s the only thing that really horrifies me – your bravery."

" But you never tell me what you' re thinking or going through," Laura admonished. " I know something' s terribly wrong with you now, but you never say a word about it."

" Believe me," Gloria hastily interposed, " there' s nothing I could say. I' m going through something, but I' ll never be able to discuss it. No one – and here I go being original – would understand."

Laura sat looking at her until a fortunate interruption rescued the moment. A very energetic man sat down next to them. He was one of the island " regulars." Both women knew him from last year, and the year before, and the year before that.

" Hey, girls," he greeted them, and wasting no time, " are you going to Leon' s party?"

He wrote the gags for a leading TV comedian, but he was disastrously unfunny in his life. Probably the comedian was unfunny as well, but nobody ever listened to him once he was off the set.

" Yes, Gregory," Laura answered. " We' ll be at Leon' s."

He was a bit disappointed. He would have liked, for once, to be invited to a party that didn' t include everyone he knew. He would have liked to feign naive dismay if Laura had said, " What party?" But he reconciled to their being invited and decided to treat them as one of the accepted. " He' s going to have a terrific band there."

Laura continued the conversation, but Gloria stared at the water as the boat started to move, arching into the bay.

There was still an hour of sun when they pulled to shore. Along the small wooden docks, a handful of women who spent their week on the island were waving to the boat and calling out names. A redhead named Peggy had a lei around her neck, and she was swaying to unheard Hawaiian chants. She had a few empty glasses and a pitcher of martinis in her hands, ready to serve the weary travelers.

Laura and Gloria walked the wooden boards to Laura' s small cottage. It was a pleasant, simple structure. They quickly stripped off their shoes and stockings, skirts and shirts, and stepped into brief, winter- packed bathing suits. They threw thin cotton jackets over their shoulders and rushed to the sea.

Gloria almost wanted to cry when she saw the vital waves breaking on the shore. She wanted to weep at the beauty she could not live with; or swim far out beyond the waves and stay there until she knew she would live without ever forgetting them.

The water was chilling to her naked back and stomach. She swam hard, but the waves knocked her back to the shore. Her mind emptied for the activity of her limbs as she forced her body against a toostrong mother. No, the sea would nurse no one. The two women left the water together and stretched out on the sand. Gloria' s fingers wet the cigarette that she freed from the pack, but the match ignited the tobacco. The salt water dripped from her hair across her face and down into the channel between her breasts. The cold, bracing water had made her nipples hard and round under her suit, and she could feel them abrasive against the cloth.

" Come on," Laura urged. " We' ll be late for the party."

" Oh boy," Gloria mocked. " Imagine being late for one of Leon' s parties. I don' t think I could live through it."

" I just want to have a few drinks and be in a room with lots of people," Laura explained.

" Of course," Gloria agreed. " Of course. Let' s go."

They had a few bottles of cold beer and changed into long, tight, dark pants and sleeveless sweaters. Their faces already sparkled with artificial health. The sky was darkening when they reached the door of Leon' s cottage.

The room was filled with casually dressed drinkers. This was a very casual island, Gloria remembered with contempt. A boy in a corner of the room was playing an uneven beat on a set of drums. His shirtsleeves were rolled above thick muscular arms, and his face had a passive Mexican sensuality. He had a thick Zapata mustache and looked like an untouched peon, not a commercial artist, which of course, he was. In another corner of the room, a chorus of girls was singing a nameless rock song, and one of the girls was trying to work up a tear, or at least a crack in her voice. An accompanying musician was running his hand up and down her ass.

Gloria accepted a drink and sat down to talk with some of last year' s friends. A few of them had been divorced, and a few had been married. Next year, roles would be reversed. Nothing had really happened, but they were all filled with the false importance of the winter' s events. She took another drink.

The evening went on, and Gloria got drunker and drunker until she thought it might be a good idea to pick up a big fat book and break all the glasses in all the hands in the room. She was searching for the right book when a young man walked over to her and said, " I think your glass is empty."

" Isn' t that a tragedy."

" Would you like another drink?" he asked.

" No," she said. " As a matter of fact, I' d like something to eat. I haven' t had anything all day."

" Wait here a minute," he told her.

She forgot him until he reappeared and took her by the elbow.

" I' ve got a few ham sandwiches in my pockets," he whispered. " But let' s get out of here and eat them on the beach."

The smoke in the room was getting thick as rubber and she was happy to leave. They walked quietly to the water, the modest sand dunes rising in front of them.

" Love among the dunes," she sang.

He said, " What?"

" Could I have the sandwich now?" she said. " I' m very hungry."

" Oh sure," he agreed, fumbling with the food in his pockets. " I' m sorry."

Gloria bit voraciously into the bread, but as soon as she started to chew, she discovered the dryness of her throat. She tried to swallow and almost choked.

" What' s the matter?" her companion asked.

She spat the bread out. " Sorry, my throat is like parchment."

" Wait here," he said again, and disappeared into a nearby house.

She sat on the sand, listening to the waves dashing on the other side of the dunes. He was back in an instant with two bottles of beer and his raincoat.

" Better to sit on," he explained, pointing to the coat.

" You think of everything."

He stopped and looked at her for a while with his sympathetic and knowing eyes. Then he said, " Take it easy."

" What do you mean?" Gloria countered.

" You know, I' m not going to rape you."

" That' s my problem," she told him.

He was quite wise. " A lot of people have that problem. But I don' t rape women. I make them share the responsibility."

" You have a point," she nodded to him.

He spread his coat and they sat down, protected by a softly sloping sand dune. She bit the sandwich hungrily and took great gulps of the bottled beer.

" You forget to eat in the big city, don' t you?" he asked.

" You forget to live," she laughed.

" Where are you from?"

Here we go ' round the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush.

" Kansas City."

He studied her. " You like New York?"

" New York is New York," she explained. " You make your own New York."

" You shouldn' t stay here," he said.

" That' s what they told me in Kansas City."

" They were wrong." He was very sure of himself. " New York is a tough city."

" Everywhere is tough. First of all, we live in our own bodies with our own twisted heads. The same things would happen to me anywhere I lived."

" There are more rules in Kansas City," he explained. " Sometimes it' s convenient to have a lot of rules."

She put her head in her hands. God, was he going to depress her? Was he going to tell her to take care of herself and then tell her what was best for her, and then fuck her?

" Do I remind you of your sister, or mother?" she said acidly.

" No," he told her. " Not at all."

" Would you like to fuck me?"

He paused. " No. Not particularly."

" What are you, gay or something?"

" Why do you fight so hard?" he asked.

" I' d just rather fuck than be analyzed," she explained.

" Does every word two people exchange have to be analysis?"

She pressed her body into the sand. Her invitation and his quiet refusal mortified her, and she felt foolish tears coming into her eyes.

" Don' t feel so bad," he advised. " I don' t feel like I' ve won the first round."

" You should have just fucked me," she cried.

" Would you have felt better?"

" Much," she answered. " Much, much better," and this time she was sobbing.

Then he leaned over and curiously, gently, inexplicably, kissed her. It felt like her first kiss. His mouth cushioned hers with gentle sensitivity. She gasped with a mixture of pleasure and surprise. He did not speak another word to her. His mouth traveled down to her neck, and found the shaded hollow of her delicate bones. He pressed against her throat as though he would transfuse his blood and life into her. Then he returned to her mouth and lingered there, moving his tongue exploringly against the soft inner flesh of her cheeks.

His mouth played long and soft on hers until she felt she was moving her head in slow rapturous movements against the sun, an infinitely warm and patient nourishment. His mouth sapped her strength and he moved noiselessly to remove her sweater and matador pants and thin nylon underclothes. She lay nude, stretched out and sacrificed in the sand. She rolled off his coat, and the sand was damp and cool and granular against her buttocks. Over his shoulders, she could see the stars, spaced and cold. The moon was starkly white, like a winter moon, and imperfectly round.

The black sky filtered into her soul. But miraculously, it reassured her that time was hers. She could stretch time beyond the bounds of eternity. The sea, smacking the shore, understood her restless struggle.

The boy' s head was magnificent, silhouetted by the moon. He looked with adoration at her breasts, light and sharp in the night air. He circled her nipples with his lips. He sucked ravenously at the firm tits, sending shivers of terror and glory along her spine. His hand reached for her godhead, and his mouth and fingers kept the same magical rhythm. Then he moved his head to her thighs and pressed his tongue into her flowing cunt. She did not touch him, but ground herself into the sand, enslaved by his controlled caresses. He caught her taut clitoris and ran his teeth over the throbbing pit. She cried for mercy and for more… but he did not hear her, intent on his sensuous worship. Her body shivered with the swiftly moving sensations, melting with heat, then rigid with cold. She wanted to, but could not touch him. Her skin felt a prickly bloodless chill. His tongue was searching deep within her womb, proving that her body' s privacy was a chimera, that she belonged to man. She reveled in the humiliation, waiting only to be taken.

" Drain me," she cried. " Let it all out of me. Drain me."

His palms cupped her buttocks and pulled her against him. She was wet and exposed, muscleless and boneless. She sank into him, rotating her hips in sensuous accord. Then his body was full on hers and he released his thick, virile erection. The swollen head was a burning coal in the cool darkness. She wanted to take his rock- hard cock into her hands, but she hadn' t the strength or courage to initiate a gesture.

Without preamble, he thrust his prick into the center of her heat and energy. It pushed massive and tight in her black eternal secret. Feeling it safe and belonging in her grasping core, she reached her arms around him, timid in her tenderness, and pinned him close, pressing him to her chest. It was the first time that she had clung lovingly to a man. He enabled her at last to be the initiated virgin. Her thighs were spread wide on the sand to make his entry effortless. Be at rest in me, she whispered in her mind… be at rest in me.

He lifted his torso to the full length of his potent prick and sank back into her. With his first full thrust, she throbbed the tremendous urge that became an orgasm. He did not move then, but let her release her convulsive triumph against his maleness. Then she felt free and light under him. Free to love with abandon the remainder of the sea- spray- and- sperm- drenched night.

His strong body pulled her hips against his and he slapped their bellies together, moving primordially, letting her have it all and give it all. His prick was swollen with love within her, and he ponderously, insanely vibrated it in her flowing cunt. She bent her knees and grasped his middle body with her legs, locking her ankles together and firmly attaching him to her. Their bodies rocked in the curve of a demented human cradle. His vital flesh was rubbing ponderously against the small stiff source of her sensation. With each long contact, a turmoil of ecstasy sped through her body. Then he quickened his motion until the two of them palpitated, bodies sucking in and out, and came.

He fell emptied at her side as she lay breathing deeply and staring at the sky. The tears had again gathered and they were pocketed in the corners of her eyes. He lit two cigarettes and handed one to her. They still did not speak, but inhaled the cigarettes deeply, remembering the life apart from their bodies. She turned on her side to him and kissed his hair and mouth and neck and throbbing heart. She could only thank him without words.

Staring down at his motionless body, she felt the passion rise within her once again. But this time, he offered his inert form to her.

She unbuttoned his light summer shirt and lifted it from his heavy arms. He was naked under the shirt, and his chest skin was soft and tight against his ribs. She quickly pulled his trousers till they were slipped in one movement off his body. He lay naked, white as a pumice stone in the night' s sun. She sat cross- legged beside him and bent her head as if in prayer. She caught his stiff young rod in her mouth and bowed her head to it until her forehead brushed his pubic hairs. She gluttonously sucked him, reveling in her possession. He shuddered his excitement, and, beneath her head, his hips jumped. Her mouth was as ruthless as his had been. She tongued the smooth, tight- skinned shaft and fingered the heavy potent sacs beneath. He crushed her head against his middle and twisted with a fury that begged for more. The cock pressed the back of her palate and she released her hands to let them wander over his flatly muscled chest. Her hair spread and blanketed his loins and finally her mouth wandered, tasting his thighs and stomach and the delicate stretch of flesh that bridged his virility to his midriff.

His rod pointed to the moon and now he did not touch her, as she had not touched him before. He moved to turn her onto her back, but she motioned " No" to him. Wordlessly, she lifted her hips and lowered herself squarely onto his upraised prick. He impaled her with a wet sucking sound. She sat high on him and pressed violently, rooted to him and the earth beneath them.

In her excitement, she could not rotate with the smooth flawless thrusts he had inflicted upon her. Her movements were erratic, like a maddened woman grasped with frenzied religion. She pumped clumsily and rode his prick till the waves of heat in her groin made her unconscious of her motion. She felt herself reaching her climax too soon. It was always too soon, but now she wanted to delay it for eternity. She sat back on him, but the involuntary spasms had begun and they traveled to her clitoris and exhausted themselves there. Her hidden insides drummed and palpitated on his indestructible erection. She gasped with delirium and suddenly felt remote and separate, sitting distant and untouched on his hips.

With the unerring communication of love, he lowered her torso to his chest, and she rested against his cool skin. He turned her skillfully onto her back and was on her with his unspent vigor. First he moved in slow, long thrusts; then they both surrendered to a primitive unlearned tempo and pounded mercilessly against each other. Her body succumbed to the shock of completion and she knew that she was screaming into the silent night. They were still then, pulsating their fluids into each other' s interlocked body.

It was much later when Gloria heard him stirring and opened her eyes to the reddening dawn. The water was deep green and the sands a quiet gray. The sky streaked over with purple and yellow and pink lights. He looked at his watch and spoke for the first time since she had asked him to fuck her.

" It' s six o' clock," he said.

She stared at the heavens and did not answer. So there would have to be a today and a tomorrow.

" I have to go," he added. " I have to catch the seven o' clock boat to shore."

She turned eyes of yearning towards him.

" I' m sorry," he whispered gently. " But I have to leave New York tomorrow."

Somehow, she had known he was a moment; a moment to show her that beyond the rapist there would be a life for her.

" I have to go to Colorado," he explained. " You see, I teach there."

It was really all right, his going. She had something else to do. But her body was hungry in the filtered morning light, and she wanted him to take her once more. He would not. Instinctively she accepted that they would have only the past evening together. It was the promise, not the fulfillment of her life.

" I would ask you to come with me," he said.

" No," she answered. " I can' t come yet."

" Why must you stay?"

" There is something I have to do."

" Something from out of the past?"

" Yes."

" You' re wrong. You' re wrong to live in the past. Live in the present, for now and possibly tomorrow."

" My past creates my now," she explained.

" No. You can' t undo it; you shouldn' t try to avenge it."

" My past is my present. My past is now."

" I' m sorry," he said, and he got up and moved to retrieve his clothes.

She lay naked watching him. He was a young god. His cock, slack against his thigh, made him unknown and innocent in the warm morning. He buckled his belt and pulled his shirt over his head. He was barefoot, and he folded the coat over his arm. He smiled down at her. She wanted to cry her love and finally managed her first sacrifice.

" Thank you," she told him. " Thank you, my darling."

He bent down and kissed her. " Thank both of us," he explained, and was over the sand dune and invisible within a moment.

She breathed the marvelous breath of contentment. Her body radiated its youth. The sea still beat tirelessly against the washed shore. The beach was empty and virginal. She sank into the sand with each step toward the water and then, offering her chest first, she swan beyond the waves. The salt stung her body and awakened her into a world of voluptuous promise. Her hair fanned the ocean.

It will be good when I kill him, she pondered like a young saint. I' m ready to be born again. She wept noiselessly into the huge salty sea, adding her tears to the immense reservoir that covered the earth.

CHAPTER XI

Gloria rested three days on Fire Island. She rested in that she did not think constantly of the rapist, the eternal source of her fatigue. She went to cocktail parties with Laura at five every afternoon. Laura was being pathologically happy, and Gloria escaped from her in the impersonal current of the ocean.

In the evening, they put on their dark tight matador pants and drank bottles of beer and half- raw hamburgers. At nine o' clock, they painted their mouths with fresh lipstick, bright orange that contrasted brilliantly with their tanning skins. Then they wandered to a porch- crowded cottage and gulped gin and tonics till the last star faded. They were in bed at four in the morning and up at noon. After black coffee, they staggered to the beach with all the other healthy partygoers. The sun was merciless on their throbbing heads, and they offered themselves to the cold ocean for five hours of sobriety. Some of the men played ruleless games of baseball along the sand dunes, but mostly they stretched out on blankets and absorbed the burning rays of the sun. The girls smeared their noses and foreheads with patented protective creams to produce athletic, gin- disguising skins.

When they took off their bathing suits in the evening, they measured the day' s sun, comparing the white unexposed buttocks to the strong brown legs. There was an occasional new face in the crowd and there was always a rush to find out what he " did." Then he melted into the amorphous group and somebody fucked him. The island was well staged, and surprises were attributed to a bad production.

Gloria sat on the floor with one of the interminable gin mixtures in her hand. Her skin was a dark rose, and she felt the return of the gnawing in her groin. She had forgotten it for three days. But the bug was in her, chewing its morsels and widening the great gap inside her. She sat on the floor and looked about her with discontent. She wanted to stretch out in the sand and offer her cunt for ravishment. The men at the party were discussing Tennessee Williams and their sex was an impenetrable question mark. She didn' t want questions.

She got up from the floor and put her empty glass on a nearby table. There wasn' t a man in the room. The rapist was leering in her face, laughing and telling her to turn to her uptown friends. The laughter of the gods. What a fool she had been to leave the city for a week. Was he walking near her doorway now, remembering her desperate invitation?

And there was Laura, conscientiously not mentioning Christopher' s name. What a bore, these transparent veneers that shrouded the truth. Of course, she conceded, sometimes the veneers kept us alive. If we deny our misery long enough, we may bury it. At least we learn that we can' t shout that we' re disappearing to insular strangers. But he was not on the island. She could sense that and it made the island dull and empty. In the same way, she knew that he was in New York. She had to get back. Maybe she could catch the morning boat? There would be no need to explain to Laura. Laura was civilized. She could just say she was leaving and rush to the streets that hid him.

She avoided the arm- in- arm lovers and walked in the direction of the sea. The eternal comforter. She started along the strand, one foot in the water, the other in the sand. Up ahead she could see a bright blazing fire. It made the sky it did not touch look blacker, and instinctively she moved toward it.

When she was close to the fire, she could hear a low soft chant, and she saw a huge pale edifice that she could not distinguish. When she drew closer, she saw that it was an enormous papier- mache penis, at least ten feet long and three feet around. Below the fantastic prick, where the testicles should have been, were two hanging balls on which were sketched grinning faces. In the spasmodic flame' s glow, she counted twenty sprawled and naked bodies. They grew silent as she approached.

" We' re having a bacchanal," a loud voice announced to her.

" Good," she responded. " I' m just in the mood."

" If you worship the invincible god Dionysus, you may join us," a thick naked body intoned.

" I am a converted believer," Gloria played back.

The twenty figures seemed to sigh relief.

" Remove your filthy encumbering garments," the man ordered. " Dionysus despises modesty."

" My clothes offend me," Gloria agreed, and she opened the side of her pants, then pulled the trousers over her ankles. Her belly gleamed pink in the glow of the fire; her legs, blackened by the sun, blended with the dark night. Her torso floated to them over the flames.

" Bare your breasts," the voice continued. " Stand before us as the god Dionysus wishes man to be."

She tugged at her black sweater, unsnapped her tissue- thin bra. Her breasts were heavy circles in the evening air. They curved skyward with unfettered pride. The voice approved of the fullness and succulence of her exposed body.

" Our god welcomes you, and invites you to sit and be one of us."

Gloria sat close to the fire, warming her front. Her eyes, accustomed to the dark, found the outlines of a young blond girl across from her who was staring at Gloria in admiration.

A thin boy with an enormous prick got to his feet and held a flute before his lips. He blew a thinly melodious song and three women undulated to the faint rhythm. They pumped their hips and buttocks and bosoms in burlesque obscenity, finally embracing and falling amorously to the sand. Gloria' s body lusted for a mouth to find her emptiness. She sat and listened to the reedy music, then a bored girl interrupted.

" Really, this is pretty dull stuff. I can' t believe the Greeks worshiped like this."

" Be quiet, unbeliever," the leader shouted.

" Well, what did we take all our clothes off for? It' s too late to get a sunburn."

" Have faith," the boy urged. " The fun hasn' t begun yet."

" The fun never begins. I' m sick and tired of this elaborate fun. I get so tense waiting to have a good time that I' m completely neurotic and miserable when something amusing does happen."

" I have prepared a little game for this evening' s prayers," the leader announced.

" Oh, goodie… games," somebody mocked.

" This game is called blind man' s bluff."

" You' re kidding."

" With a slight twist," the leader amended.

" How can you twist blind man' s bluff? It was considered passe in kindergarten."

" The blind man will be blindfolded."

" You really have this game down pat, don' t you?"

" We will all run in a circle around him."

" I don' t think I could stand that much fun."

" The person he catches," the boy continued, " be it man, woman, child, dog… do we have any dogs here?… will have to fuck the blind man."

They were all studiously silent for a moment.

" Splendid," a voice shouted. " Leader, you are a genius. That' s a splendid game. What a twist! No wonder we didn' t appreciate it in kindergarten."

" There is another condition," the spokesman continued.

They were all eager to begin.

" It is the task of the victim, in case of differences in taste or sex, to stimulate the blind man to a generous unstinted fuck. The victim must abide by the preferences of the blind man."

" Wonderful, wonderful," they declared. " Let' s begin now… immediately. Who' s the first blind man?"

The flutist lilted a merry tune and they clapped their hand like obedient children ready to play.

" I choose Henry as the first blind man," the leader announced with elected authority.

There was a gasp of surprise from a small brunette girl.

" Now, Paula," Henry warned.

Henry walked to the center of the circle, near the fire. He was ludicrously tall and skinny, and completely naked except for a brush of hair on his chin and head and between his legs. He wore thick glasses, which gave him, from the chin up, a very dressed appearance. One expected him to gravely tip a black derby.

The leader moved to tie a red and white polka dot handkerchief across Henry' s eyes. Henry' s glasses interfered with the operation, and his wife said, " Why don' t you just take off his glasses? I assure you he' ll be quite blind."

" Why don' t you stop assuring people and keep quiet," her husband insisted. But his voice was hurt; her barb had connected.

The blind man tripped away from the fire, his arms outstretched, cutting the empty but shrieking space around him. Gloria did not move from her position on the sand. She pulled her arm- wrapped knees against her chest and sat watching the bacchanal. Suddenly the blind man whirled about and caught a girl by her shoulders. He held to her firmly as the leader removed the blindfold and handed him his thickrimmed glasses. He hastily stuck the eyeglasses on his nose and looked at his prize. Then he grunted in horror as he stared into the eyes of his benign wife. He was speechless for a few seconds and then he shouted at her.

" Why the hell didn' t you keep out of my way?"

" Well how in Christ' s name did I know you were going to grab someone behind you?"

" Can' t you ever sit down… I mean just sit down on the side and watch something? Do you always have to be in the middle of all the noise, in the middle of my goddamn world!"

" I never see you on the sideline," she retorted. And they stood glaring at each other.

They turned to the leader in unison. " We don' t have to, do we? I mean, for crying out loud, we' re married. Can' t you make another rule, or give us another chance?"

The leader turned, for his answer, to the crowd.

They shouted, " THEY FUCK!"

" Okay, Paula, do your tricks," the high priest ordered.

" Oh, come off it," she pleaded in alarm.

" Look at your husband, Madame," he advised.

There stood Henry. His hopeful immense erection had wilted like a sick plant on his leg.

" Husbands and wives shouldn' t have to play. They certainly shouldn' t have to fuck."

" Hey, Paula," someone in the crowd shouted vulgarly, " Can' t you even make your husband hot?"

" Sure I can," she retorted. " It' s just such an effort." Then she decided to play the game.

Her husband said, " Get on your knees in front of me and suck me. Shut up for two minutes."

Paula knelt in the sand, her head level with her husband' s lax prick. She picked it up, fingering it critically and sighed, " Ain' t I just too lucky."

From above her head, Henry reached back his arm and struck her brutally on the back of her neck. The girl glared back, shaken. Then she exposed her darting tongue and began to lick him on his inner thighs and on the two balls that hung beneath his tapered frightened prick.

Gloria could clearly see the pink tongue outlining a circle around his maleness. Henry' s rod, with ageless response, trembled and started its urgent ascent.

Paula' s head moved busily at his hips, undulating before him. He looked down at her bowed head and his prick took an important leap.

She at last took his cock in her mouth and sucked it eagerly, palming his sperm- packed sacs. The shaft disappeared completely into her mouth. Her teeth were nipping it gently and Henry groaned. She seemed intent and lost in her task.

Gloria' s mouth felt dry and jealous, her tongue unconsciously repeating Paula' s devotions.

Henry crushed his wife' s head against him and moaned, " That' s wonderful darling; that' s wonderful darling."

Paula, intent on his now- rigid cock, could not lift her head to deflate his pleasure.

Then Henry pushed her away from him and said, " Get on your hands and knees with your back to me."

" What?" she exclaimed.

His face was livid with his passion and the reflection of the flowing fire. " Go ahead… you heard me."

" You wouldn' t dare do this to me in private," she complained.

He hit her again and she fell to her flat palms, lifting her bottom to his scrutiny. Now he bent his head to her hair- cushioned vault. From behind her, he pulled her legs apart and sniffed his head closer. She looked like a chicken, wings pulled apart, being searched for the white meat. His rod was sailing ponderously before him.

Paula' s hair matted the sand. She was not prepared for the violent push into her cunt, and screamed out. But he was having her at last in the position her arrogance denied.

Gloria watched the huge white prick sucking in and out of the quicksand hole. As big as it got, the elastic receptacle could absorb more.

Henry' s chin dug high into his wife' s shoulder and he rocked violently against her.

Gloria' s vagina burned with sympathy and envy. She reached down and rubbed some sand against the inflamed membrane.

The husband and wife were oblivious to the panting faces around them. They riveted against each other for completion, moving frantically and often dropping to the sand. His entire prick could not be seen now, only the hair- planted root.

" Come," he urged her. " Come, baby, come."

" Yes, yes, yes, yes." Her body twitched, planted awkwardly in the sand. At her first automatic reflex, Henry quickened and deepened his thrusts, until he geysered into her. She fell to the ground and he sprawled on top the shaking form, covering her with his long, thinbearded body. The audience was silent.

When she could finally speak, Paula said, " We should do this more often in public. You really improve." And they hated each other again.

The crowd burst out its enthusiasm. " The next blind man – hurry, pick somebody."

" Paula," the leader announced, " in the best tradition of blind man' s bluff, will now be the blind man."

" That' s not fair," a girl exclaimed. " She' ll get fucked twice."

" No alarm, kitten," he soothed. " We all get it twice."

" Well," a girl next to Gloria whispered, " I think it' s just as much of a kick to watch." Gloria looked at her as if she were insane.

" Don' t you think so?" the girl questioned.

" No, I don' t," Gloria replied flatly.

Paula stood naked, the bandage over her eyes. Her squat body rotated in circles. She held her arms before her, searching for a victim. Her husband lay spent and curious in a far corner of the circle. Paula stumbled blindly, and reached down to a motionless figure on the sand.

" You are my victim," she announced.

A very drunk boy was picked. He looked up at her and said, " Baby, we are all your victims."

The high priest removed Paula' s blindfold, and she studied her to- be lover.

" Jenkins!" she squealed with joy in her voice. " I knew I' d catch you someday."

" Someday!" the girl next to Gloria echoed. " Christ, she' s been surer than guided missiles at getting Jenkins."

Jenkins weaved out toward the center of the group. He could not stand upright for too long. He had a substantial erection that did not seem to interest him at all.

" Stimulate me," Paula demanded.

" The day you need stimulation, kid," he told her " I might get a little stimulated." He hiccupped his boredom and drunkenness.

Then, with a flying lunge, he caught her by the knees and knocked her sprawling on the sand. Without pause or caress, he pried open her vagina, getting his cock in with one precise gesture. The girl moaned. Jenkins pulled her legs tight around his hips and raised her body till she was propped on her head and shoulders. He methodically and ruthlessly pumped her. Gloria could see the juices dampening the bed of sand under Paula' s bottom. Her husband, still in his corner, watched them with hot eyes.

Jenkins shot in and out of her, treating her like an accidental depression in the sand. The girl writhed under his pounding, screaming his name with abandoned adoration. Up and down he went, and from behind them, Gloria could see his tossing ass and then a glimpse of his knocking balls and the thick wet rod that he threw into her. With each push, Gloria could feel her teeth shake in her head. She was rubbing her starved clitoris to the boy' s masterful rhythm.

Paula shuddered, her legs and arms flung out with the gesture of a wounded deer. The boy pulled out of her at that instant, and with a drunken laugh, freed his sperm in a curved fountain onto her quivering stomach.

" No babies today," he roared. " Just some old- fashioned sanitary fucking."

The girl was still on the sand. Her husband studied her with contempt. She dragged herself quietly to a darkened area. Far from the fire, they heard her whimpering.

Jenkins couldn' t get up to be blindfolded. He stretched out, not fully conscious. But according to the rules, the high priest bandaged him and demanded that he choose a victim. The boy tried to stagger to his feet, and they all laughed watching him. A few of the viewers ran about him. Gloria sat motionless on the sand, hugging her knees and exposing the ridges of her wet flesh. Jenkins tripped over the blond girl who had stared at Gloria when Gloria had removed her clothes.

" He has a victim," they all shouted, eager to see how he would rise to the demands of carnality. But Jenkins, sprawled across the girl' s slim figure, was motionless. He was now completely unconscious.

The leader stood up. " The victim, in this case, will have to become the blind man."

" Yes!" there was immediate agreement and relief that the game would continue unabated. The blond girl was quickly blindfolded. She waved her arms before her, chanting, " Who will be my victim?"

Gloria studied the sand; it was running with her streamed passion. Her head fell to her cushioning arm and at that moment, she felt hands lightly tapping her shoulder.

" You are my victim," the girl cried.

When her blindfold was removed, she looked at Gloria and smiled into her eyes. It was obviously not by chance that the victim had been found.

" Come to the center of the ring," the girl insisted.

Gloria stood up and was surprised at her own trembling. " What do I do with you?" she implored. " I don' t know what to do with a woman."

" Just do as I tell you," the girl calmed her. " I have no partsyou don' t have: no secrets. There' s nothing to be afraid of."

They stood exposed in the light of the fire. The audience was delighted that the two girls would be the next lovers.

The blond girl stared at Gloria and addressed her. " Reach out and touch my breasts."

Gloria was standing directly facing her lover. They were about a foot apart. She cautiously put her hands before her, and closing her eyes, she cupped the girl' s full globes. Her body heated with alarm. The breasts were soft: soft but firm in their shape.

The girl reached over and put her hands on Gloria' s firm mounds. The hands were gentle… a woman' s hands. It was if Gloria were performing before an enchanted mirror.

" Now do whatever I do," the girl commanded. She freed three of her fingers from the round, throbbing flesh and delicately pinched the hard nipples. Gloria looked down at her body, watching the tits in erected obedience. The warmth was radiating to her vagina. She timidly, then hungrily, fingered her double' s rosy resistant tips, realizing that she controlled her own experience. As hard as she pinched and pressed, the pressure on her own singing breasts responded. It was magic and she kneaded the girl with liberty, forgetting the staring fire- lit faces.

The blond girl clasped Gloria' s head and pulled it toward her. She pressed soft lips against parched lips. The woman' s mouth was softer and more insinuating than any man' s had been. She bit her lips and struggled with tenderness to the dark blood- tasting tissues within. For a long moment, the girl chewed her mouth, fingering her nipples, till Gloria lost cognizance of which was her lover and which herself. They lowered themselves to the sand.

The girl' s head was at Gloria' s thighs and Gloria balanced the position. They formed a white oval on the sand. The girl scissored her head between Gloria' s loins and Gloria did the same. Then she felt a tongue, maybe her own, pierce her clotted passion. The tongue and mouth and teeth gnawed at her core. With fear, Gloria darted her tongue into the girl' s offered opening. Her mouth found the hard button of sensation. So this was her taste. So this was the musk and dampness that she thought she could never know, as mysterious to her as it was revealed to the men who possessed her. She dug eagerly into the soaking membranes and heard herself groan.

She adored her reflection. Then she felt the tension mounting like one brick pressed on top of another in her now familiar vault. Her own tongue urged and nuzzled her completion. Her body writhed with the first mighty contraction. The orgasm waved out of her and the cunt around her tongue expired like a bleeding artery. Then the girls fell apart.

They lay obscenely splayed in the sand. Gloria felt the blond girl rise and walk back into the dark. Alone, she was offered to the stranger' s eyes.

The high priest approached her exhausted form and helped her to stand. " Now you must find your victim," he told her.

She stood subservient before him. He tied the bandage over her eyes. It was stranger than she had anticipated to be blind with the fire first warm on her back and then on her trembling breasts.

She reached her arms into the unseen and heard the taunting of near voices. She circled in the hot dark, sometimes tripping to her knees as she searched for a victim.

CHAPTER XII

It was three o' clock in the afternoon when she opened her eyes in the small cottage bedroom. Once awake, she knew that she would catch the five o' clock boat to New York. She wished herself in the city now, searching the streets for him. The evening' s bacchanal made his death urgent. She would turn into a twisting animal if the poison he had deposited in her could not seep out with his spattered blood.

She slipped into her bathing suit. There would be time for a fast swim, then she' d pack and shower, and by nine she would be home. She hurried out to the beach and found Laura sitting on a blanket with three other bridge players. They were waiting for a bid and had been silent for the past five minutes. Gloria' s presence changed the electricity in the patient air, and they all looked at her with annoyance. Laura smiled and said accusingly, " I hear there was quite a party on the beach last night."

" Yes," one of the players said as she pulled her eyes from the cards, " tales of nudity and strange religious rites."

" I wouldn' t know," Gloria lied. " I just woke up."

Laura regarded her strangely. " You look like the unkissed sleeping beauty."

" I' m going back to the city today," Gloria announced.

" Must you?"

" Yes, there' s something I forgot to attend to."

Laura remembered her breeding and did not press. " Come out again if you can. I' ll probably be here all of next week."

" Thank you," Gloria said. " I had a good rest."

" You look like hell." Laura suppressed a laugh. " If you see Christopher and his concubine, don' t give him my regards. Tell him I never mention his name."

" All right."

" Say it in such a way that he comes running out here to get me. Hint that big things are happening and that if he doesn' t hurry, he' ll be too late."

" All right," Gloria repeated, and looked away from Laura' s painful of- course- I' m- not- being- serious face.

" I' ve been pretty good about Christopher, haven' t I? I mean, I' ve been living in spite of all kinds of preferences."

" You' ve been splendid," Gloria told her. " I hope you get what you want from him." Her tone gave it importance. Laura looked away with embarrassment and quickly bid.

" You' re all right, Gloria, aren' t you?"

Gloria felt a burst of pain in her brutally used cunt.

" I' ll be all right," she promised Laura.

She walked to the sea and stood at the edge of the water. She muttered a pagan incantation to the sea. " Lead me to him tonight. I can go no further. Help me, I pray you." Then she plunged into the divinity' s breast and floated far out.

The boat left sharply at five and it chugged across the inlet, managing to take one- and- a- half tense hours before it docked at Amityville. The slow, painful voyage induced a stupor in Gloria and she sat on the top deck with an unseen book in her lap. She caught the seven o' clock train at Amityville and reached Pennsylvania Station at a quarter past eight.

Gloria unlocked the door of her apartment and entered the silent rooms. The night pressed black through the transparent curtains. There was a sterile order in the flat, except for a lipstick- rimmed coffee cup left on the kitchen table. The order oppressed Gloria and she opened the cupboard and took out a bottle of scotch. She poured some generously into a glass and took a deep drink of the burning liquid. Her mouth stung and she held the scotch in her puffed cheeks until it was warm enough to slide down her throat. She walked to the water tap and diluted the liquor with a third of water. Then she sat down on the couch, smoking and drinking slowly, inspecting her latest painting. The canvas was a streaking of blues and dull grays. The colors moved in and out with a futile energy. She stared at the painting with distaste, wondering if it was better to do nothing than to do something unimportant.

She hadn' t realized, during her hours at the easel, how trivial the final product would be. All her life Gloria had had a faith in her world, in her ideas, in her talent. When she was five years old, she had taken a black crayon in her hand and drawn a black sun that shone on a black farmhouse hidden in a field of black corn. Her mother had shown the picture to Gloria' s father, and that moment her parents had concurred that she was an artist. It was comfortable to have an identity. The rapist had crushed that identity. She would have it back. She would have him back. One hour was all she needed – one hour.

She left the house and walked lonely in the summer night streets. It had to be that evening. Time denied an egress. She could not contain or stay her desperation with another impersonal nameless fuck. She had to find him to return his hate. She was a vessel in which he had carelessly deposited his soul, and it choked hers. She was a frozen star circling his mysterious orbit, and something profound and undeniable in nature would take her back to him.

Third Street was filled with pushing tourists. The men balanced wide- brimmed hats that would have been suicide on Madison Avenue. The women wore flower print silk dresses, all the same cut and pattern. They must all have been seduced by the same " what to wear in New York" ad.

Some soldiers jostled her and a southern corporal drawled, " Baby ahm just a lonely boy lost in the big city." His buddies laughed uproariously at his witty courage and Gloria knew with nausea that she had to get off the streets.

She went into the dark club where dedicated jazz musicians went to play after hours. Climbing down the steep narrow steps, she could hear a trumpet playing " Melancholy Baby." She sat down at a round table for two and asked the waiter to bring her bottled beer. He brought it to her and took the opener out of his dirty apron, snapped the top of the bottle and pocketed the little cap. Dancers were clinging to each other on the tiny floor, guided away from the bordering tables.

She lifted the beer to her lips and the trumpet wailed for her attention. She looked over the rim of the glass at the slightly elevated bandstand. He was there, whispering into the trumpet. She finished a long, cool, thirst- quenching drink.

She recognized him in a distracted casual glance. The same white eyes flickered expressionlessly over the dancers.

His shoulders, clothed in the dark jacket, hovered over the brass trumpet, protecting it from the smoke- packed room.

Sitting alone at a small table placed at the foot of the platform was a pale young girl. She had long fair hair and the detached melancholy stare of an addict. She moved imperceptibly to the music and smiled secret smiles as if she were receiving coy messages in the melody. Messages reserved for opiate ears. The rapist nodded curtly to the remote girl, and the girl made a responsive motion toward him that was not physical. Her spirit leapt in a movement to return his nod. So he had a woman who waited for him. He took her home after the last set, and if they weren' t too high, they fucked.

You' re going to die tonight, Gloria messaged to him. Blow a dirge. Blow taps for yourself. She didn' t know how she would get to him, but he would die tonight.

A boy with a busy tweed jacket pulled at the rapist' s sleeve and the musician lowered his ear to the customer. A request for " The Lady is a Tramp." The rapist motioned to the piano player and they decided on a key.

She tried to fully feel his presence, the long hunt rewarded. When the band finished playing " The Lady is a Tramp," they scraped back their chairs and took cigarettes out of their pockets. Time for a break. A few young boys in the club dashed up to the platform to play the idle instruments. The rapist walked toward the fair girl. Gloria got up from her table and discreetly blocked his way.

" Don' t musicians dance, too?" she smiled. The invitation was exposed with her teeth.

" Yeah, kid, musicians dance." The customer was always right. He put his arms around her and led her onto the small dance floor. The pale girl looked at them casually. She was accustomed to the rapist not reaching the table.

Gloria felt a great rest, leaning against his chest. She had never really been anywhere else. The rapist looked over his shoulder and directed her effortlessly. She could tell by the uninspired movements that he was annoyed. Sometimes she thought he would not take the next step, just let his arms drop wearily to his side and walk off the floor.

" Not bad," he commented, and she turned around to see that he was staring at the flared hips of a neighboring redhead. The redhead was clinging to her partner. Gloria tightened her grip on the rapist.

" What time do you finish work?"

He remembered she was there. " Two o' clock."

" What do you do when you leave?"

" I go home, baby."

" Do you live in New York?" She was asking all the insipid questions that eager- to- be- friends ask.

" No," he had answered that too often. " I make it in Chicago."

" How long will you be in New York?"

" The band cuts to Ohio tomorrow," he volunteered.

Without you, she thought. You' re going to be stuck in New York.

" Ever been to New York before?" she questioned.

" About a month ago," he supplied.

" Been here before that?"

" About thirty- six times."

He hates me, she thought.

" I live around the corner," she said.

" Great."

They were both silent after that. The dance would end and he would disappear. She moved closer to him, rubbing against his flat stomach.

" Not bad," he sighed. He was looking at the redhead.

" What do you do when you come to New York?" She wanted him to remember, for an instant, for a realized flash, that he had held her in his arms once before."

" I flip," he laughed. " I pick up, prowl and flip."

" Anything interesting happen to you last trip?"

" Nothing interesting ever happens to me, baby. I' m a very uneventful guy."

He loved himself; she could tell that. She remembered that this was a man who got his kick, even if he couldn' t recall it, when he violated a woman. He despised her eager rubbing against his body. He had to initiate the attack and then take the woman before she was ready. If there was time, she would have played the game, created the illusion that he was chasing her. But there was no time for games. The game was up. She touched his pants. He was flat.

He glanced down at her. " What do you do?" He was waiting for the dance to be over, but the unprofessional musicians didn' t know how to end a number. They were afraid that if they stopped they' d never start again.

" I' m a painter," she replied.

" A painter." He was like lead in her arms. " What do you paint – walls?"

She detested his banal humor. It would be too ignominious to kill him if he were a fool.

" Don' t say stupidities," she warned him.

He looked down at her with curiosity. " You take yourself pretty seriously."

" I' m a very serious woman."

He scoffed. " You all are. Women are too much."

" Do you have much trouble with women?" Her hand was on his groin and the bump was shaping.

" I make out." He looked at the clinging redhead. " I make out."

The music rose to a finish. Now, now, now.

" Look," she suggested, " I live right around the corner. Why don' t you come over now for a cup of coffee?"

She wasn' t his type. " I only get a fifteen minute break," he told her. What he meant was, no dice, not interested.

" I' ve got some new jazz records," she was desperate. " They' re terrific." He didn' t answer and she added, " You can have them if you like."

He stopped on the dance floor and watched her. He found it interesting for a woman to be that much out of her mind. It didn' t excite him, but it was interesting. Too bad it wasn' t the redhead.

" Great," he said. " Let' s go listen to your records."

Her heart suffused her throat. For a minute, she couldn' t reply. They were standing in the middle of the floor and the music had stopped. Other dancers were quietly waiting for the next number. They weren' t conspicuous. " I' ll get my bag," she told him. She walked to the table and looked into her purse. The knife was there. He was waiting at the entrance and they walked up the stairs to the street.

When they got to the door of her house, she turned to him and said, " Ever been here before?"

" I don' t know, baby," he responded. " I never know where I am in New York."

She wanted him to remember. " You must know people in the neighborhood. A lot of musicians live around here. A lot of kids from Chicago, too." He turned the knob and let her into the hall.

" It looks familiar," he helped her. " But all the apartments in New York look the same to me."

Nothing, nothing.

" What floor do you live on?"

" The fourth."

Walking up the steps, she knew that she was not going to let him into her apartment. That wasn' t the plan. The plan had been carefully made. She stood before her door and dug into her pocketbook for the key.

" Christ," she complained, " I' ve lost the key."

He wanted to go through with it now. " Let me look for it," he offered. He reached for her purse.

" No, I remember now. I didn' t lose it. I lent it to a friend. She must be in there now. Damn it, we can' t disturb her."

" That' s too bad." He really didn' t care that much. " No records." They walked down the steps together. In the hall, she took her chance.

" Look, do you mind?"

He didn' t understand. She put her arms around him and rubbed her mouth against his pale lips. She moved her head, caressing the sensitive mouth. She fingered the outline of his stiff prick.

" I' m sorry; it would have been fun." He looked at his watch. He had ten minutes.

" Come back here," she urged him. " Here behind the stairs. No one ever comes in at this hour."

" You' re too much," he said, but he followed her to the small cave behind the stairway.

She pressed him passionately against the wall. It was a performance. For the first time since he' d raped her, she wasn' t hot. Her cunt had turned to ice.

He grabbed her breasts. The other time, he hadn' t touched her body. Only her cunt. He was not a tender lover. He bit her mouth savagely and his hate shot a flame of recovered excitement through her. She gasped against him.

" Do you remember?" she begged. He could even save himself if he' d remember. " Have you been here before? Do you feel that you' ve been here before, like this, here with me?"

" I feel like I' ve been here all my life, baby." He was hot and saying the expected thing. So he would die.

He lowered her to the floor. He was pulling her panties off over her hips.

" Wait, wait," she breathed. " Cut them off me."

He understood and with recollected skill slit the thin nylon bridge of her panties. Her black fur mound lifted to him.

" Now!" she screamed. " Now."

" Quiet, baby… you' ll wake the dead."

Wake up the dead. That' s what he was doing to her. She wouldn' t be dead anymore when they finished. And he would never finish. He' d take the feel of her cunt to hell with him.

He kneeled between her legs. She was dizzy with the repeated nightmare. Had she moved, had he moved, since the rape a month ago? Or had he stayed, kneeling at her prostrate form, collecting his strength for the next assault?

She freed his cock and it sprang to her, white and urgent. He pulled her knees apart and sank into her slippery tunnel. She shouted with ecstasy,

" Quiet," he warned her. But he was grinding hard, not hearing clearly. He had only five minutes, then he' d blow till two o' clock and smoke a joint and take the long- haired blonde home.

His flying body was saying to her, " Here, take it back. I give it back to you. Grab your sanity. Remember this fuck. Remember it and finish it. Here, I' m breaking the gates. Escape… run for freedom."

Her hidden sex was turgid. His prick boiled the juices inside her. She had the inflamed, don' t- stop sob in her cunt. She started to babble, to beg his forgiveness for their death.

" I must do it to you," she wept. " Forgive me, forgive me darling." His prick was hardening and he ripped faster into her. " I love you," she explained. " I love you, my darling. I love you with all my hate. I hate you with all my love. I must give it back to you. Understand. Understand. I beg you. I can never let you take it from me. I must give it. It must be mine, only mine, so that I can give it. Help me. Help me."

The spring snapped and the liberating contractions began. " Come! come!" she implored. His prick swelled and the first spurt of sperm inundated her.

He moaned, " Baby, baby, baby."

He was helpless. She owned his last ecstasy. Her arms flung out as her limbs fought. Her fingers clenched the handle of his knife. The knife he had used to slit her pants. She clutched him in her arms, the knife free behind his back.

" Hold me, my darling. Hold me, my love. It' s all right. You' re safe. You' re safe in my love."

Obediently, he pulled her closer. The final burst of his loins pumped to the head of his prick, and with an inhuman wail, she sank the knife into him.

His body stretched motionless on top of her. He was dead. The last sated pulse of her orgasm was unfelt against his inert sex. Her mind stayed with them, enjoying the comforting weight of his corpse. She rolled his body off her onto its side. He was immediately, absolutely dead. Some of his blood brushed her thigh and she was red beneath her sex. His eyes stared wide in frozen surprise. Her head began to ache and she stretched out next to his immobile body. She was ready to give him up.

The police would be convinced that it was a rape. " Brave girl," they' d say, and pat her on the back and offer her a lollipop.

She turned her head and it brushed his rigid profile. Yes, she' d have to get up from the floor and call the police and cry out her contrived terror to them. Her body was languid in semi- sleep. She was so tired.

Content

Harriet Daimler
Darling

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII