THESE CURIOUS PLEASURES

BY

Sloane Britain

These Curious Pleasures

By Sloane Britain

First published in 1961.

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ISBN:  978-1-936456-26-0

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THESE CURIOUS PLEASURES

CHAPTER 1

I was doing it again and I couldn't stop myself.

I never could. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't redirect my thoughts, couldn't turn my mind to something else. It seemed as if my brain were compelled to follow the ritual through to the end, to lick its memories like an animal nursing a wound. As always, I was compelled to go back over the same thing again and again. To what use? Maybe because remembering even the bad parts made it seem as if it were still real.

I was having lunch in a crummy little delicatessen on Sixth Avenue. "Busy Young Career Girl Blends Beauty and Bagels," the fashion magazines would probably caption it. Nuts.

I had a bagel in my hand, sure enough, but I felt as if I had been born old, and my so-called "career" could go take a flying leap for itself, and I looked all right but inside myself there was a lot of ugliness. Beauty, too... that sharp, too bright, poignant, hurting kind of beauty.

Marilyn. That's the name that throbbed in my head. The name I whispered into my pillow every night before going to sleep.

I am the girl who is actually a girl inside a girl.

Inside the person known as Sloane Britain there is Marilyn. I am the shrine to herself that Marilyn built.

Yeah, I'm one of those. Put me in a category if you want to. Stick a label on me. I don't care. Sticks and stones can break my bones but loving Marilyn Turner nearly killed me.

Funny, I know that what happened to me is what happens to loads of other women like me. I've read enough books on the subject. Listened to enough drunken confessions from soft-hearted diesel dykes. But, like everyone else, I think that my experiences were unique. Unique because people just couldn't feel the way I did and still go on. I did, but that's just because I didn't know how to stop.

Someone ought to write a song and call it the "Lunch Hour Blues". It wasn't so bad when I was in the office. There, I had to keep my mind .on other things. When I was outside that money-making insane asylum I couldn't think of anything else.

Remembering how we met was nice. The way I walked into her class expecting nothing except to be bored and what happened when she came in. Marilyn Turner is about five feet ten. Lanky, big-boned but graceful. When she came in and introduced herself to the class I thought I would flip. I didn't know then what to call what I was feeling. All I knew was that she wasn't beautiful in the conventional sense, but to me she was the most attractive woman I had ever seen. Sophisticated, self-assured, calm. Not at all what you'd expect to be teaching Contemporary French Literature in a hick college. I was going to the school because it was in my home town and I couldn't afford to go away to college. One look at Marilyn and I wouldn't have left that place if I had been given a full scholarship to Vassar.

I don't know if Marilyn saw my reaction that first day but it didn't take her long to catch on. It probably was so evident that my Aunt Tillie would have understood. I used to just melt inside when she read to the class. Her voice was like a caress.

Before long I was inventing all kinds of excuses to talk to her after class. Then she asked me to do some typing for her. That meant being alone with her in her apartment while she stood behind my chair and dictated. Sounds crazy but I used to think I'd just burst with happiness because we were alone together, even though it was only a business relationship.

It stayed that way for all of a month.

Then there came the night that it hurt to remember, let me have that kind of delicious hurting just a few times in my life and I'll die happy.

Marilyn had been standing behind me dictating as usual. Except that night she kept putting her hands on my shoulders and leaning over to look at what I was doing. Her face was so close to mine that I could see the blonde down on her cheeks. I made mistakes right and left. It's a wonder I was able to type at all the way she was making the blood pound in my head.

When I thought I wouldn't be able to stand it one minute longer, she brought her face close to mine and looked deep in my eyes, a slow smile playing about her mouth that had nothing to do with the corrections she was telling me to make.

And then she kissed me.

I didn't know what to do. I felt all arms and legs going off in different directions. Marilyn solved the problem for me by taking my hand and leading me to the couch. She sat and made me lie down with my head in her lap.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"About the way you kissed me. I can still feel it. It's as if your lips were still against mine."

In answer, she bent down and kissed me again. This time there was no doubt in my mind why she did it. I'd been necking with boys for years. I knew the difference between a kiss of simple affection and a kiss that says I want you. I was surprised. Not that a woman was kissing me that way, but that Marilyn was doing it. For me she had always been like the star to the moth. It never had occurred to me that she could have any more than a friendly interest in me. The way some teachers feel toward a promising student who has a crush on them. Marilyn, the woman to be loved from afar as one would worship a beautiful statue, wanted me!

I returned her kisses eagerly. Then we were lying side by side on the couch, our bodies touching as I pulled her closer. Tightening my embrace so that I could feel every inch of her against me.

Marilyn pulled away abruptly. Her eyes were glazed and her chest was heaving with the effort of breathing. "Call your mother. Tell her you're going to spend the night here. Tell her we're going to work late and I'll drive you to school in the morning," she said.

I made the call and came back into the living room expecting to find Marilyn still on the couch. She wasn't there but I could hear her walking around in the bedroom. I went in there. Marilyn had changed into pajamas and a robe. The sight took my breath away. The robe was black wool and her pajamas were white silk. The outfit was perfect for her. Like her own coloring. Her black hair and thick black eyebrows stood out magnificently in the pale whiteness of her face. Her ice blue eyes were bright and shining.

"This is for you," she said, handing me a flimsy blue nylon nightgown.

I was horrified. Wear that! In front of Marilyn! The nightgown was cut low in front so that the sides of my breasts would show. The material was almost transparent. Just light enough so that you could make out every detail of the person wearing it.

"Don't you have something else?" I asked. "A pair of pajamas?"

"This is for you. I got it especially for you. One day when I was shopping in Fox's I saw it on display. I knew immediately that it would look wonderful on you. I've had it quite a while. I didn't know exactly when you'd be wearing it but I knew that some day you would." Her eyes were, laughing at my discomfort but her voice was hard with command.

I went into the bathroom to change. The mirror proved that Marilyn had been right. The nightgown was made for me. I'm a little over average height and a little plump around the edges. Call it baby fat if you want but the boys seemed to like it. "You pack a lot of woman," a man once told me. I thought it was one of the nicest compliments I had ever received.

The nightgown came down to my ankles in soft pleats. It made me look taller and slimmer. The bodice was tightly gathered under the breasts.

My eyes are a kind of peculiar blue-green. Like the ocean, one color predominates over the other, depending on the lighting and the surroundings. I've got the craziest circle of orange around the iris. Like a dog's eyes. Anyway, the nightgown made my eyes look a deep blue. That's good with my long auburn hair.

But I felt ridiculous. I hadn't yet gotten out of the stage where I walked like I was carrying a baseball mitt between my legs. My posture was lousy. A hangover from the days when I had been the tallest kid in town. I stopped growing when I was fifteen and boys began growing taller than me. But before then I had felt like a freak. So I stooped. I was still taller than the boys my own age but I hoped that no one would notice. The effects of that period still hung on. I was round shouldered and, if I wasn't concentrating on my posture, looked like a backward S.

The nightgown was made for the kind of woman who moves like a dancer. I felt in it about the way a man would feel in an evening gown.

I opened the bathroom door and called out to Marilyn to hand me a robe.

"You won't need one," she answered. "The apartment's warm."

I told her I'd feel ridiculous parading around in just the nightgown. Her answer was brief and to the point. "Don't. Feel beautiful," she said. When I finally forced myself to come out of the bathroom and stand before Marilyn everything changed. The naked look of appreciation and desire on her face did something to me. I felt like I was truly a woman for the first time in my life. You don't feel that way just in your head. Without thinking about it, I became more graceful and more self-assured.

Marilyn had made cocktails while I was changing.

"Do you drink?" she asked before handing me mine.

"Sure. When I'm out on dates." Big deal Sloane Britain drank because it was the thing to do. You know how kids are. Those of us who could pass for twenty-one made a big production out of guzzling all we could lay our hands on. At eighteen I looked twenty-three. There are some advantages to extra weight and heavy-lidded eyes.

It was a martini. My first. I had heard about what happened to girls when they drank too many martinis. Those stories were second in popularity in high school to the ones about the girl who took dope. Ridiculous. I was born with a hollow leg as far as alcohol is concerned. I had always been able to drink a lot and still keep my head, so why should tonight be any different?

Marilyn put some records on the phonograph. Soft, silky music with lots of violins. Then she came over and sat next to me on the couch. She didn't say anything. Just sat there looking at me. At the way my body was outlined in the sheer gown.

There are two, no three places on a woman's body that sit up and beg when they want to be touched. I felt the tips of my breasts getting hard and pushing against the transparent gown. All Marilyn was doing was looking at me and this was happening! I tried to cover my embarrassment by gulping down my drink.

Marilyn made more. I think I must have had four or five martinis that night. I don't remember too much about the drinking part.

"Marilyn, please kiss me again."

"No. I think we ought to talk first," she said.

"I won't talk unless you kiss me first," I said. Yeah. I could hold the martinis. Like hell I could. I heard my own voice and knew I was saying ridiculous things but I didn't care.

She laughed and leaned over to kiss me. But when I tried to press my body against hers, she drew away. "How old are you, Sloane?" she asked.

"Eighteen. I thought you knew. How old are you?"

"Thirty-four. Does that bother you?"

"No. Why should it?"

"Because I'm nearly twice your age," she answered. "I could be your mother."

If she only were, I thought. If I could live with Marilyn and be close to her like a daughter. I'd do whatever she wanted instead of the exact opposite as I did with my own mother. I was a real doll at home. I thought I was asserting my maturity if I behaved rudely toward my parents.

There was one thing I had to know. "Marilyn, have you ever loved a woman?" I asked.

"Yes. With varying degrees of intensity I've loved several. There hasn't been anyone in a long time, though."

"What about men?"

"I like men too. Someday I'm going to cut out all this nonsense with women and get married. There's no security or chance for real happiness with women."

The bitter tone in her voice tore at my insides. Marilyn had been unhappy. I determined right then that I would do everything in my power to make sure that she would never feel unhappiness again.

We talked for a long time. Marilyn asked me questions about myself. She wanted to know all kinds of things about me. In particular, she seemed interested in my sexual history. There wasn't much to tell. I was no virgin. That little detail had been taken care of the previous summer. A boy I had known most of my life who had cried like a baby when it was over. I had just sat up and said, "Well, that's that." I was a real doll in those days.

She asked me about women. I knew it would be wrong to tell her that I had never even thought about it before I met her so I lied and said that I'd had crushes on teachers before but nothing had ever come of it.

I knew what she was getting at. She wanted to know if I realized that my feeling for her had a name. I knew and it didn't bother me a bit. One thing I have to thank my mother and father for is the way they brought me up to believe that I had a right to go after happiness no matter what form it took.

It was late when we went to bed. About 12:30. I hadn't realized how much the liquor had affected me until I tried to walk into the bedroom. My knees felt weak and the room seemed to be slowly spinning around me. I finally managed by fixing my eyes on the headboard of the bed and just aiming toward that.

Marilyn switched off the lamp on the table beside the bed and turned toward me. She gathered me in her arms. "Baby, baby," she whispered, "I've waited so long for this." Her lips were so hot they felt as if they would burn me. I had read about that in books but didn't believe that it could happen in real life. Again and again she kissed me. All over. On my mouth, my forehead, my eyes, my ears, my neck.

I felt as if there were a brilliant sun of glory inside me that was growing bigger and bigger until it would burst and shatter me into a million little pieces of joy.

Then Marilyn was coaxing the nightgown up over my body and off me. She took off her pajamas. Now I could feel her lovely smooth skin. No rough hairs and hard muscles like a man would have.

Her long slim ringers traveled all over my body. I was trembling and nearly delirious with pleasure. Then she trailed her mouth down my neck and chest. Shocks of pleasure went through my entire body.

Then she bit. Not too hard but hard enough to hurt with a pain that was more pleasure. I gasped.

Marilyn moved. Her lips were everywhere. Her soft cheek caressed my thighs.

Deep within me the joy spread. Violent spasms shook my body. As my whole being convulsed in ecstasy I could feel Marilyn sharing my miracle.

The alarm clock rang in the morning. Not to wake us. We had not slept. It had been a night of wonder followed by greater wonders.

We dressed and went to school. We weren't tired. There are some activities that give you more energy than they take away.

I broke off my reverie. Time to go back to work. I paid the check for lunch with my last dollar. The change and some coins I found in my coat pockets made seventy-five cents. Enough for transportation back and forth to work until Friday, when I'd get paid. Someday I'd have to grow up and learn how to manage money. I had to. I had to grow up in a lot of ways.

CHAPTER 2

"Good afternoon. Harold Broadman Office."

"Skip the good afternoon bit, it takes too long to deliver. Anything happening?" the weary voice on the phone inquired.

"Nothing yet," I answered.

"O.K. Let me talk to Judy."

I switched on the intercom system and prepared Judy. "Mr. Broadman for you. He sounds like last night was a bad one."

"Yeah, I know. I've already talked to Karen," Judy said. "Tell you about it when I'm finished with Happy." She switched off the intercom and picked up the phone.

I went back to the elaborate doodle I had been drawing before the phone rang. I covered sheets of note paper with the damned things. What else could I do in an office where it was quiet as the tomb one minute and the next minute everybody and his uncle was demanding attention?

Judy finished her conversation and came out into my office. Not exactly "my office". Actually, it was the reception room where I had a desk big enough to sleep on, the switchboard and one of those fancy typewriters that did everything short of lick stamps. It was a perfectly gorgeous layout. Like something out of a movie set. The reception room was papered with real honest-to-goodness gold lame wallpaper. There was a thoroughly impractical deep-piled black rug on the floor and a chartreuse couch. In addition, there were a couple of soft black chairs and low tables holding huge lamps that gave off practically no light. On the wall behind my desk were pictures of Harold "Happy" Broadman's clients. What I wouldn't have given to have a setup like that in my own apartment.

Judy flung all four feet eleven inches of herself onto the couch. "Happy says you're catching on fast," she said.

"Like I'm glad he thinks so," I said.

"Like we're glad you're glad," she said.

"So what's the story for today?" I asked. "I better be prepared. The harem should start calling any moment now."

"Happy was out with Sylvia last night. He told his wife that he had to go to a private showing of a new pilot film. So when Karen calls either put her right through to me or give her the usual song and dance about how you were at the showing too and how lousy it was. Be careful of Pat though. She's beginning to smell a rat. She might try to trip you up and get some info out of you. Just tell her you don't know where Mr. Broadman was last night and when he'll be in this morning. She knows you're new and might try all kinds of tricks to get around you. Be on guard."

The phones started all ringing at once, so Judy got up and went back to her own office. The calls were the usual garbage. When would Happy be in the office and had he said anything to me about this or that deal? Yes, Happy had told me to tell you all to go to hell and no, I wasn't going to let them know I knew anything about their business. That was my job. To be gracious and noncommittal. It was always, "I'll have Mr. Broadman call you when he comes in." He wouldn't, of course. Not unless they were real important or one of his drinking buddies, that is.

Silence. From nowhere, as if somebody had suddenly put a deadener on the telephone. It was always like that. Either everybody called at once or there were no calls at all. So I drew doodles.

One-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon in February of 1961 and I was working in the office of one of the biggest television producers and agents in New York. What was I doing there? Making money, naturally. But there was more to it than that. I wanted to write plays and I figured that an office like Harold Broadman's could teach me a lot about the techniques of production and also give me a chance to meet people who could help me once I'd gotten a good script ready. Also, I like to eat, and there are more obnoxious ways of making a living.

The office was on Central Park South which, in case you don't know, is one of the poshiest streets in this burg. Posh was the word to describe everything about the place.

The office cost fifty thousand dollars to decorate and it looked it. Everything was sleek and beautiful. Like a gorgeous scabbard that looks great on the outside but is really concealing a knife. A rusty one at that.

I was part of the decor. A manifestation of Happy Broadman's aesthetic taste. Happy had taste in women, I'll admit that, if you go for faces like masks with nothing behind them. I was one of the other group. One of his office women. Strictly hands off and I intended to keep it that way. But still he liked women in his office who looked like somebody he'd be giving the big rush to.

I answered the phone and entertained people in the reception room while Happy kept them waiting for hours. That was the easy part. The hard part was keeping all his women contented. Ignorance is bliss they say and Happy lived by that motto. As long as none of his women knew about the others he thought everything was fine. He should have heard some of the things they said about him to me.

So I lied to them. I hate lying. It does something to me inside every time I do it. But I was just following the boss' orders. Doing my job—what a crock of you-know-what that is.

Judy, Happy Broadman's secretary, was the only female he respected. Maybe that was because she had never slept with him. And she could handle Happy better than I could. He bellowed orders at her just as he did at me. But she yelled back at him. I'm not that way. I don't go for breaking the sound barrier when a normal tone of voice will do as well. Three weeks in that office and I still didn't sound like an air raid siren but I knew it wouldn't last. The atmosphere would get me and I'd scream like the rest of them soon.

Judy had worked for Happy for ten years. They adored each other. You could tell by the way they insulted one another.

Steve Callas and Jack Fenton also worked for Happy Broadman. They got big salaries but they sweated for it. Most people think an actor's agent just sits back and collects his ten percent. Jack and Steve were the proof that they're wrong. There were no set working hours for them. Sometimes they worked until after midnight and then had to be at a rehearsal the next morning at eight. They had to be prepared for anything. An actor's agent has to be a combination psychiatrist, mother, business manager, press agent, nurse and friend.

The elevator door opened directly into the reception room so I had to be prepared for just about anything to suddenly burst in upon me and it did around four that afternoon. Amy Ferguson came swishing in, scattering self-importance around the place like rose petals. Salaam everybody, Happy's little breadwinner is paying us a call. "Hello, Sloane, how are you today?" Amy asked me. I want you to understand that I'm not one of those goons who goes all out for the glamour bit. People are just people to me and somebody who has achieved fame is particularly interesting to me only because I like to try to figure out how they managed to get ahead of the rest of the pack. But I have to admit that Amy Ferguson floored me. I would have done anything for that woman. That's the effect she has on lots of people. I guess it's because she's kind of real in a business where reality is a kitchen set on a low budget show. She asked me how I was and she really wanted to know. Even if I had been sick she'd want to know about it. Not in a sticky way like somebody's grandmother who wants to exchange her troubles with you, but because Amy Ferguson knows that the people you meet on your way up are likely to be the ones you'll meet your way down. So she doesn't dismiss any of us just cause we're not a Josh Logan or somebody. I hated to tell her that Mr. Broadman wasn't in. For someone like her he should have been there. She made more money for him than all of his other clients put together.

Amy Ferguson is the idol of the flannel nightgown set. Millions of housewives all over the country lay off thinking of things to bitch about to their husbands when Amy's afternoon program comes on. She talks to them in their language. Not gooey and gushy like most of the broads you see on television, but simple and direct. She's warm and she's friendly and you feel like she's talking to you directly right out of the screen. She seems to be telling all those women that she knows their husbands are ungrateful slobs but here is the way to keep the brute so happy that he'll stay out of your hair for a while. She doesn't use sarcasm to put it across but you get her message.

That's what I call talent. Not the sort of thing that would make me watch her program, but artistry in her chosen field. What more can you ask from a human being? Besides, she wasn't one of those clients who made a habit of dropping in when they didn't have an appointment and making Happy hop around like a jack rabbit for his ten percent. It was a big deal when Amy Ferguson stopped by to see her agent on the way to the studio. Happy should have been there.

She went around the office saying hello to everybody and was just about to leave when Happy came in. "Any calls? Hello," he said.

"Amy Ferguson's in there," I whispered and gestured toward Judy's office.

His hangover dropped off him like clothes off a strip-teaser. No wonder he was such a big success. Not everybody can live up to a nickname like Happy when they've got an ulcer eating away half their stomach. He was all smiles while he escorted Amy into his office.

My desk faced his office so I could look right in the door and see just what was going on in there. It came in handy. I saw him mixing them both drinks. That's one of the things I'd have to get used to. Liquor is right when the situation is tight in this business and it doesn't matter what time it is.

Amy took her drink over to the couch and Happy sat down next to her. I couldn't hear what they were saying but I watched them. Her. She's really a good-looking woman. Even offstage without all the make-up. Must be pushing fifty by now but she's got a figure that I'd like to have. The platinum blonde hair is out of a bottle but with that face and figure she'd look silly with grey hair.

Suddenly Amy slammed her fist down on the coffee table. The moment of polite conversation was over. I relaxed back in my chair. No need to strain hard now. They'd both be bellowing so loud at each other now that you could hear them all the way down to the Plaza.

"Happy, I just can't take it any longer."

"Easy, darling, we've been through this before. We've always been able to work out something." Happy was doing his understanding father bit.

"No, this is it. I won't put up with that man any longer. Why should I? I support him. I get jobs for him. What does he do for me? I'll tell you what he does for me. He drives me out of my mind, that's what he does."

So that's why she was here. She was having trouble with her husband again. Amy Ferguson, symbol of happy motherhood to half of America, can't stand her husband. Can't blame her. She married him when they were both bit players in the theater. Now she's a star and he resents her success. Makes life miserable for her because he knows he's a nothing.

"I know what you're putting up with," Happy said. "I sympathize with you. But you don't have to put up with it, you know. Just ignore him. What can he do to you?"

"Happy, I want to divorce him."

"We've been through this before, Amy. You can't do that. Think what it would mean to your career."

"To hell with it! To hell with all those bitches! What do they care about me? I've got a right to my life, Happy. I'm not just Amy Ferguson, proof that a woman can be an actress and still have a happy marriage!" She was crying now. Happy had won.

It always ended up that way. Amy came there to blow off steam. She knew that it would amount to nothing. She might as well give up her whole career as get a divorce. Once she had appeared on her program without the ever present diamond brooch that her husband had given her on their first wedding anniversary, and the housewives had flipped. Letters poured in wanting to know why she hadn't worn the brooch. You'd have thought that they'd found out that superman was a homosexual from the way they carried on in their letters.

Amy left in a slosh of tears and promises to try to get along with her slob of a husband.

Then Happy started bugging me in his inimitable way. He could dial a number as easily as I could, but he had to call out to me to get a number for him. And if the line was busy or someone didn't answer, it was my fault!

The phones kept me busy for the next hour. It was always that way in the office. Everybody who hadn't called already and some of those who had phoned between five and six. Most of them just called to say hello to Happy, Jack or Steve. That's the way it is in show business. You keep in touch with each other because if you don't, they forget that you're alive.

At six sharp I turned off the switchboard. If I hadn't I never would have gotten out of there. Besides, the really important people had Happy's unlisted number and could call him on his private phone.

I was home in a half hour and immediately didn't want to be there. No sooner did I close the door behind me than the walls started whispering again. Very limited walls. They only knew how to say one word. Marilyn.

Where could I go with no money? There was no help for it. I had to stay in the apartment alone and try to think about something else besides Marilyn. I didn't succeed.

Did you ever see a woman's face in a can of beans? Hear her voice calling to you in the sound of running water? Marilyn was everywhere. Everywhere except where I wanted her. In my arms.

I gave into it after supper and put some soft music on the radio, lay down on the couch and let the memories come...

After that first night I frequently stayed with Marilyn all night. That was easy to arrange. I said that we got more work done that way. My parents were proud of the way I was working so hard and still keeping up my marks in school.

As the months went by I stopped seeing all my other friends. I had no time for them. When I wasn't seeing Marilyn I had to catch up on my studies. I didn't know then that she planned it that way. That that was the way she always worked it.

I saw no one but Marilyn. She became my whole world. I didn't need anyone else. Nobody wanted me around anyway. I was irritable and critical of everyone. They weren't Marilyn and so they were unbearable to me.

Even my mother and father noticed the change. But they thought that working too hard had exhausted me and that I'd get over it as soon as the project I was supposedly helping Marilyn with was completed. Then I could get more sleep.

I loved Marilyn. God, how I loved her. She was so good to me in other ways that I didn't mind the way she bossed me around. I even liked it, in fact. I couldn't find enough ways to express my love.

I suppose that Marilyn is the kind of hot-pants school teacher that they tell dirty jokes about. To me her incessant appetite for love-making was wonderful. Sometimes I'd be so exhausted that I thought I'd never be able to make it again. But a few caresses from Marilyn and desire would flame anew within me.

We went on that way for seven months. Seven months of the greatest happiness I've ever known. Then one night Marilyn told me that she had decided to go straight. The proclamation came from nowhere. No preparation. Nothing. She never even mentioned the possibility that we wouldn't be together for the rest of our lives.

I pleaded with her but it didn't do any good. She said that she had lost all interest in women. She was going to find a man and get married.

"I'm not really gay," she kept repeating. "It was just a neurotic need that I've grown out of."

So there I was with egg on my face—and an ache in my heart and a need in my loins that only Marilyn could fulfill and she didn't want any part of it. She even refused to see me any more as friends. She said it would be kinder to me in the long run that way.

There are no words to describe the next month. Let it go that I was in such a state of despair I didn't care whether I lived or died.

Then I heard that Marilyn had moved in with the Dean of Women. One look at "Muscles" Hagerty (as the Dean was called behind her back) and I knew what going straight meant to Marilyn. Straight to another woman.

So I ran. I wanted to get away from that town. I was afraid that if I ever saw Marilyn again I'd kill her. I wouldn't have, but I had to strike back at somebody. So I took it out on myself.

I moved to New York. I found a crummy little hole of a room in Greenwich Village and set about trying to forget. It wasn't long before I found people who were trying to do the same thing. We were quite a crew.

None of us had a steady job. We'd work for a couple of days to make drinking money and then quit. Living the way I did doesn't take much money. Lunch, breakfast and dinner consisted of coffee and a hamburger or a hot dog. There are still places in the Village that I can't go to because they remind me of that period. I used to sit in them for hours over a cup of coffee because I had no place else to go.

I was kicked out of my room for making too much noise when I was drunk. Some nights I would sleep with a friend who had a pad of her own. Other nights I picked up a girl in a gay bar and stayed with her. Don't ask me who I slept with. I didn't ask for names and if they told them to me I was too drunk to remember.

I killed a whole year that way. Nearly killed myself in the process. It finally caught up with me one night a couple of months after my grandfather died. He hadn't left much money but I was the sole inheritor. I got a thousand dollars and spent it all in two months. Who knows how. Ask the multitude of friends I suddenly found myself with every time I went into a bar.

All I know is that one day I woke up and there was this prune-faced woman standing beside the bed. No matter how drunk I had been, I couldn't have picked her up. Then I dug the uniform. She was a nurse. I was in Bellevue. I had everything you can think of that comes from too much liquor and not enough food and the proper rest.

Later I found out that I had passed out in a bar and the cops had brought me there.

I nearly flipped when my mother came to see me. Why did she have to be dragged in on this whole ugly mess? But I was under-age and the hospital had notified her as a matter of routine.

I was in the hospital for two months. Not one of my so-called friends came to visit me. It was just as well. I didn't want the other patients and the hospital staff to see the hair-cuts on some of the girls. I was wearing my hair short but you should have seen them. Most men let their hair grow longer than that. Lots of them didn't even own a skirt.

When I got out of the hospital my mother came to New York to stay with me for a month. She was great. She didn't ask any questions. All she knew was that I was hurt and needed her. As if I had broken a leg or something.

We found an apartment for me on the East Side in the Eighties. The furniture came mostly from the Salvation Army. We got some pretty nice things there for very little money.

Mom stayed with me until I found a job. It was a sweat-shop but I didn't care. I just wanted to get some order in my life. I was feeling better than I had in years. I wanted to write again and to make a nice home for myself.

After Mom left there was a change. I couldn't go back to my old ways but I was restless all the time. During the day I was all right. I did my job well and they liked me. But nights I couldn't stay alone in the apartment. I had to be with people. So I started going down the Village again. I didn't even feel like drinking very much. Just enough so I could stay in the bars and cruise the girls.

I met some pretty nice ones. Good-looking girls around my own age who could talk about something besides the weather. I went home with them and sexed it up for a couple of weeks until they began to bore me. They weren't Marilyn. Funny, I was lonely as hell but I wouldn't let anyone get close to me.

Then one of the girls invited me to a straight party. I went just to see what it would be like. I didn't know if I still remembered how to act with a man outside of a business relationship.

Judy Symonds was at the party. We got to talking and she told me about her job with Happy Broadman. I said that I'd give anything to work in a place like that but I had no experience in show business. Judy said that she was looking for a new receptionist and I could have the job. Just like that. She didn't even ask for references.

There was a chance that Judy had been drunk when she made the offer but I didn't think so. I took the chance and quit my job. Five days later I started working for Harold Broadman, Inc.

The job was better but the nights were the same. It killed me to be alone.

This night was no different. Remembering was driving me out of my mind. I could forget only when I was at work or making a play for some woman.

There was a bottle in the kitchen. I made myself a drink. That would help me get to sleep. The liquor tasted awful. It always did when I was alone.

The telephone rang. It was Lorraine. She was the latest. I had met her a week before. Her period of grace was fast running out.

She invited me up to her place. What the hell, it was better than staying alone. At least she only lived three blocks away and I wouldn't have to spend any carfare. I said I'd be right up.

Jesus, it was cold. The wind blew off the East River and cut through my coat like it was paper. I ran the three blocks to keep the blood circulating.

Lorraine was a nice girl. She deserved the best. That I gave her what she wanted. I had her moaning and sobbing in my arms.

I enjoyed it too. She was a good one. Not all women know how to make love. Not by a long shot. I like a woman who's not afraid to let you know how she feels. Lorraine sweated and heaved against me.

I'm no slouch in the passion department myself. We made it three times before I even began to feel satisfied.

By the time I got. to sleep you could have picked me up with a blotter. I had given my all. All except for that place under my left breast that was like an icicle throughout the whole thing.

CHAPTER 3

It was three in the afternoon and Happy still hadn't shown up at the office. What a day it had been. His numerous lady friends called first on his private line and then, when they didn't get any answer, they called back on the office phone. They drove me nuts with their questions. For a change I didn't have to lie to them. I honestly didn't know where Happy was or when he'd be in.

Happy had called at ten that morning to say that he'd be in within the hour. That's the last we heard from him. He did that sometimes. Everybody knew what he was doing but not where or with whom.

Happy was nobody's fool. He knew what he was doing when he hired Steve and Jack. They could handle everything in the office. Happy was a figurehead. He made the money and gave the office class. In a weird sort of way Happy exuded prestige. He had the kind of self confidence that usually comes from an upper class background.

The elevator door opened and Pat Donnelly got off. "Where is that lousy bastard?" she demanded.

"Pat, I wasn't lying to you. I don't know. Maybe he's in conference over at the network. Sometimes he gets tied up there and can't call," I told her.

"In a pig's ear! He would have gotten a message to me somehow if that was the case. He was supposed to meet me for lunch. I've been waiting for him for three hours!" She wheeled on her heel and stalked into Judy's office.

I felt sorry for her. Judy and Pat were friends but that wouldn't do her any good. Judy had been lying to her about Happy's whereabouts for years. That was her job.

Pat Donnelly was Happy Broadman's chief mistress. No mean accomplishment. She had plenty of stiff competition. They'd been together for nine years. Happy wouldn't divorce his wife and Pat loved him too much to just let him go. God knows what she needed him for. She could get plenty of better men. She's a stunning green-eyed redhead. I'd go for her if she were gay and I consider myself a pretty good judge.

The elevator door opened again and Karen Broadman stepped into the office.

This was going to be quite a scene. Happy's wife was suspicious of every female in Manhattan and a couple in Westchester, too. But she had no proof that he was unfaithful. Pat ranked high on her list of suspects.

"Is Harold in?" she asked. "I was out shopping and I thought that since I was in the neighborhood I'd stop in and have a drink with him before going on home."

I told her that he was expected back from a meeting any minute and suggested that she wait for him in his office. She went in there without having noticed Pat.

Things were getting complicated. They got more so.

Sylvia, one of Mr. Broadman's current playmates, got off the elevator next. I didn't let her say a word. Just said something to her about how Jack wanted to see her in his office about a walk-on part that she might be interested in. I made sure that my voice was loud enough for Jack to hear. He'd get the picture and know how to handle it.

Now the problem was to get hold of Happy before those females did. God knows what would happen if he wasn't briefed ahead of time.

I told the elevator man to keep Happy down in the lobby if he came in and to come up and tell me about it. Then I settled back to await the arrival of the great man.

The place was loaded with good-looking women. Even Happy's wife isn't too bad. I was in my element. Have a few that look like one of those three in a gay bar when I'm there and hand me my harp, I'm in heaven. But under the circumstances it was look but don't touch.

About a half hour later the elevator man told me that Happy was down in the lobby. Judy took over the switchboard while I went downstairs to give him the poop.

He thought the whole thing was a big fat joke. However, he did agree with me that it would be easier if he had a plausible story to tell. He assured me he had a good one.

Happy went up on the elevator first and I followed a few minutes later so it wouldn't look fishy.

When I got back in the office Happy had all three women in his office drinking like it was going out of style and listening open-mouthed to his story about the coup he had pulled at the network that afternoon.

He was telling them some long involved story about getting the network to underwrite half the expenses of a pilot film. Amy Ferguson was hell bent on coming out of the bush leagues of afternoon programming with her own nighttime situation comedy series. The gimmick was to make a sample film called a pilot and show it to sponsors. They figured that it would cost about $50,000 to make a half-hour pilot and that's a lot of bread, even for an outfit like the Harold Broadman Office.

Happy went on at great length about how he had argued with network officials until they finally agreed to pay for half the expenses. According to his story, the haggling had gone on from ten that morning until just before he got to the office. That's why he had kept all three of his women waiting.

I listened in complete amazement. Everybody in the office knew that contract had been signed last week. There's no business like show business.

I got tied up on the phone for a long time and then I had to go into Judy's office and help her with a budget she was preparing.

It was well after four o'clock when I finally got back to my own desk. I started snooping on the fiasco going on in the inner sanctum again.

Happy was still entertaining the three broads. What an artist! He was talking so much that nobody had a chance ask any questions. All the attention was directed toward him so that the three women weren't even being bitchy toward each other.

He was sweating plenty, though. You could tell by the way he was drinking. Usually he would put at least a drop or two of water in with the Scotch. His mannerisms were a little stilted, too. Like an actor's, they were close to being natural but a tiny bit stagey. I noticed that every time the telephone rang Happy would look up anxiously. It would have been murder for him if someone had called about the Ferguson pilot. How would he have been able to talk to them?

I guess he didn't realize how much I had learned about the job in the few weeks I had been there. I knew how to handle the situation. Sure, there were calls for him but I put them through to Judy. As Happy's private secretary she could tell them that he was in conference and couldn't be disturbed. Judy and I worked perfectly as a team in keeping Happy's social life as uncomplicated as possible. The business aspects he could manage himself.

* * *

The next day we were supposed to start casting the bit parts for the Amy Ferguson pilot. It the series sold, most of the actors and actresses who had small parts in the pilot would be used for the later sequences. It was a good deal for them. Worth taking a chance for. They only got $80 a day for working on the pilot and that's chicken feed for television work, but they considered it an investment for the future.

Somebody goofed somewhere, we never found out who. There was a notice in the trade papers that morning announcing that we were casting. Instead of the dozen or so people we expected to come in response to our calls to the talent agencies, at least two hundred actors showed up.

It was pitiful. Everybody in the office was horribly depressed by it. There was nothing we could do. Steve and Jack auditioned the ones who had been sent by agents and a few of the more promising free-lancers, but they couldn't handle that mob. There just wasn't time enough.

I got the job of turning away the others. I hated to do 't. Some of them looked as if they hadn't eaten in a week. There were men in their sixties wearing threadbare double-breasted suits who were applying for the role of a man of thirty. They told me that when they dyed their hair, or wore a moustache or who knows what, they would look young enough. What could I do? I had to take their phone numbers and tell them that we'd call them if anything came up. Don't call us, we'll call you—that means no soap in show business and they knew it. Three of the parts were for young girls who were supposed to be beauty queens. Lots of hags were after the job but you should have seen the others! I didn't know there were that many gorgeous women in all of New York, me, you could tell just by looking at them, were strictly no talent kids who thought they could make it on their looks alone. Somebody ought to tell those lovelies that what they had been warned about producers and what they were now preparing to capitalize on just isn't true. You don't get a part by sleeping with the producer. If you've got something to offer it might speed things along to be available after rehearsals, but no producer can afford to substitute talent in bed for talent on the stage. Besides, a guy like Happy Broadman gets whomever he wants (with some exceptions) without bargaining.

The flood started abating about two o'clock and by three there were no more eager hopefuls in the office. We had told the ones who had come in the morning that the parts had been taken and word must have gotten around. I don't know how. Actors seem to have some sort of sixth sense or underground railroad system of communication when it comes to jobs.

I was exhausted. All the time that I had been getting rid of the actors the regular business of the office had been going on. Between the two jobs there had been no time for lunch and I was starving.

Happy saw how exhausted I was and offered me a drink. That was his solution for just about everything. I didn't really want a drink but I took one anyway. Happy mixed two Scotch and waters that would have put hair on a cue ball.

The phones were taking a coffee break so I sat in Happy's office drinking and having a typical boss-employee conversation. Happy was telling me about his women. He had the most immoral, unscrupulous attitude toward women I'd ever encountered. But there was such a robust Rabelasian quality in his approach to them that I couldn't hate him for it.

At one point he put his hands behind his head, tilted back in his big swivel chair and said, "I love women. All of them. The short ones, the tall ones, the fat ones, the skinny ones."

Me too, I thought, but I didn't say it.

When the elevator door opened and a young woman got off, I didn't get up. It was five o'clock and time for one of Happy's harem to come up for cocktails. She didn't look familiar but I hadn't met them all yet.

When she didn't come into his office after a few minutes I realized that she must be waiting out in the reception room. Obviously, she was not there on a social call. I excused myself and went out to see what she wanted.

The carpets were so thick that footsteps were muffled. She didn't hear me approaching. She was standing in profile to me, looking at the clients' pictures.

Another beauty queen. About medium height, trim and well-groomed. Her long honey blonde hair fell in a soft page-boy on her shoulders. With her figure she could go far, if she had the talent to go with it. She was round where a dame should be round and a 38-C if I've ever seen one. Her suit jacket was open and I could see her sweater doing its best to keep from bursting at the seams. I made a silent bet with myself that she was as tall lying down as she was standing up.

"May I help you, Miss?" I asked. She turned slowly around. It took me a few seconds to see her face, I was concentrating elsewhere. She had the kind of waist that used to be called waspish. And hips, real ones. I don't go for the flat-hipped Audrey Hepburn little boy look.

Before she spoke I saw the look in her eyes. There's a special look that a woman who goes for women gives another. I call it the long drink. It's difficult to describe, but it's a peculiar combination of interest, sympathy, appraisal, amusement and challenge. That was the look that was hitting me like the proverbial ton of bricks.

"I'm Allison Millay," she said. "I heard you were casting."

"I'm sorry, we've already cast..." I started to say when that look hit me again. "Uh, on second thought, wait here a minute, will you?"

Jack had gone home but Steve was still there. There was one small part still open. They needed a young girl to play the part of a secretary. Steve was reluctant but I finally persuaded him to give the kid a chance. He agreed to let the girl read the script for ten minutes and then come into his office for an audition.

I prayed that she'd be a quick study. Ten minutes is an awfully short time to give even an experienced actress. In those few minutes she'd have to figure out the basic personality structure of the character and just how to deliver the unfamiliar lines.

I handed a copy of the script to Allison and she sat down on the couch to read it. I read the part over at the same time. By then I should have known it by heart. I had typed the thing through five revisions.

To me the script stank. Later, after I had seen the finished pilot, I understood that that's because I didn't know how things work in television. On paper it looked awful but with a skilled director and good actors it came alive. There are sight gags that aren't written into a script. People who read scripts all the time can visualize them but I was used to reading plays for the theatre. There the humor is more verbal than it is on television.

When the ten minutes were up, I showed Allison into Steve's office. He closed the door so I couldn't hear what they were saying. Nothing daunted, I flipped on the intercom system. After all, they weren't dealing with confidential material.

I was so nervous I barely heard Allison read. But then I heard Steve laugh. For the first time. No one else who had read the part had gotten even a chuckle out of him. And he laughed harder as she read more.

I knew it was in the bag before I heard him discussing terms with her and asking her the usual questions about her background.

Allison had the usual history. Bit parts in summer stock, roles in college productions and a couple of commercials at trade shows. This would be her first chance to break into television.

They arranged that she was to come back the next day to sign her contract and meet the rest of the cast.

Allison came back into the reception room looking like she had just been elected governor. Lord, she was beautiful. She was so radiant with happiness that it hurt me to look at her.

She put on her coat and rang for the elevator. Then, while she was waiting for it, she came over to my desk.

"Thanks," she said. "Guess we'll be seeing each other from now on. Maybe we could have lunch some day?"

"Fine. I'd love it," I said.

The elevator came and Allison got on it. She leaned out the door and said, "Good-bye."

That look again!

CHAPTER 4

Happy was in the office by ten the next morning. An unheard of thing. He was there at that hour because Amy Ferguson wanted to talk to him about the pilot before the rest of the cast got there. When Amy Ferguson wanted Happy around, he was there. In exchange she brought in at least $1000 in commissions each week. She was a good client in other ways too. Not very temperamental, dependable and considerate. One of the reasons that Judy and I liked her was that she had her own private secretary and didn't bother us with small chores the way some of the other clients did.

I called her secretary to find out if I should- have breakfast ready for Amy when she got to the office. It was a goofy job. Ordering breakfast for someone would be nothing unusual. I was there to accommodate in all kinds of things. I walked dogs, shopped for presents, minded children and modeled hats. You could never tell what a client would ask for next.

Amy's secretary, Chris Salem, said that she and Miss Ferguson had already had breakfast and that Miss Ferguson would be at our office in a few minutes.

I felt like telling her to cut out the Miss Ferguson crap, but I didn't. I knew something she didn't know I knew. Something that I don't think anybody else in the office knew.

Most people don't have their secretary live in their home. I'd never been to Amy Ferguson's apartment but I could bet that she and her secretary at least had separate bedrooms. Why was it then that most of the time when I called Chris would be in Amy's room? Often Chris would tell me that Miss Ferguson couldn't come to the phone because she was asleep. Then I'd hear a voice in the background asking who it was and Amy would come on the phone herself.

I wasn't jumping to conclusions or projecting. There were too many obvious things pointing to it. Later when I met Chris at the showing of the pilot, I knew I was right. Chris Salem looked like someone my mother would like me to marry. All she needed was to put on a pair of trousers. She even looked like a man in an evening gown.

I'll bet that without Chris around to take the sting out of her marriage Happy would never be able to talk Amy out of divorcing her husband.

Amy and Happy were locked in his office for an hour. The other six members of the cast assembled in the reception room waiting for them. Allison was the last one to arrive.

We didn't have any chance to talk. I was too busy with the phones.

Amy and Happy came out and introduced themselves to the cast. Amy could turn down any one of them if she wanted to, of course, but that wasn't likely. They had been carefully picked and were right for their roles. Amy wasn't the sort of person to run into personality conflicts. Everybody who worked for her always ended up worshipping the ground she walked on. The suburban pied-piper could bewitch sophisticated theatrical people as easily as she charmed her audiences. And, as I've said before, it wasn't phony. Amy really liked people and they liked her.

Amy went around the group exchanging pleasantries with each one of them. When she got to Allison I saw a change in her expression. The long drink. She'd never looked at me that way. O.k., so she didn't go for me. I wasn't her type. No crime in that.

They went through the formality of reading for Amy. She okayed them all. Arrangements were made for rehearsals to be held at the Silver Medallion Studios in the Bronx starting the next week. Then everybody left and the production crew came in.

This was the roughest part for me. Budgets had to be drawn up, computed by me, typed by me, rejected by Happy, drawn up again, computed again, typed again.

I was astounded by the costs. A little thing like light bulbs was going to cost them $300. Everything had to be figured out in advance or they'd end up running thousands of dollars over the budget. As it turned out it rained one day when they were supposed to shoot outdoor shots and the delay cost them $7,000.

The office was in even more of an uproar than usual. The production crew manager yelled at his assistant. Steve and Jack yelled at each other and at the crew manager. The crew manager yelled back. Happy yelled at everybody. No matter what they screamed at each other, everyone called everyone names that were more appropriate in the bedroom. In this business men call each other darling, doll, sweetie and lover all the time.

The crew manager would bellow to me: "Darling, have you got the new schedules typed yet?" Then to Jack: "You'll see, doll, this new budget is a sweetheart."

Jack would yell back: "Lover, it better be. I love you madly, passionately and without reservation but we can't spend $5000 for one set."

And Happy would scream from his office: "What did I hear about $5000 for one set? What are you trying to do? Screw me? Take it easy with my dough, you bastards. Cut that crap about overtime. We're making this thing on schedule or we're not making it at all, right dolls?"

And Steve would thunder back: "Happy, you son-of-a-bitch, we're doing the best we can. Stop bugging us."

And I'd shriek: "Pipe down, will you. I can't hear myself think!" The atmosphere was beginning to get me and I was finding a capacity for vocal volume I never knew I had.

Then the chorus would come in: "You're right, doll." "Sweetheart, you've got a point there." "Baby, we need you around here to keep us in line."

Two minutes later they were all screaming again.

I didn't have a chance to think all morning. I made up for it at lunch time.

I fell into a seat at the delicatessen thinking that I'd never be able to get out of it again. Was I beat! I didn't even have the energy to fight my memories. So I thought about Marilyn. What else?

Why did she have to treat me that way? Was that how she got her kicks? I loved her so much.

Then I realized what I was saying to myself. Loved her? Past tense? Was I finally getting over her?

It wasn't much to go on but it held the possibility of release from the most complete of tyrannies—the tyranny of memory. I went back to work ready to cope with anything and anybody.

The afternoon was a repetition of the morning. Work and noise.

By the time I left that evening, I was almost glad to be spending an evening home alone. I was so tired all I wanted to do was go to bed. Alone, for a change.

I had been home less than an hour when the phone rang. It was Allison.

"How the hell did you get my number?" I asked. I'm very polite when I'm tired.

"It's in the telephone book."

"Oh," I said.

"I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me tonight?" Allison asked.

I was beginning to feel better already.

"What about coming up to my place?" she continued. "I could have dinner ready by the time you got here."

She gave me her address and I said I'd be there in an hour. I was there in an hour and a quarter. I liked to play hard to get.

Allison lived in a three room fiat in the West Eighties.

It was one of those furnished deals that look like somebody had used the furniture in a juggling act.

She told me her room-mate was out of town until tomorrow. She was an airline stewardess. I just raised an eyebrow. She got the message.

"She's straight," Allison said. "We're just good friends."

I'd heard that pitch before.

It was sweet of her to make dinner for me but she should have let me help her. I could have opened the cans. I shouldn't complain. Canned or not it was food and I wasn't looking for a woman who could cook.

After dinner we went to a neighborhood gay bar. The place was almost empty. Those places outside the Village only do real business on weekends.

Most of the time we had talked about show business. Allison was still starry-eyed. I tried to set her straight about some of the hard realities of the theatre but I knew I wasn't reaching her. These kids only learn by experience.

As the drinks began to hit me my mind shifted to far more interesting topics. Allison was wearing a pair of skin tight frontier pants and a sweater that made the first one I had seen her in look like a sack.

"Let's dance," I said.

"But no one else's dancing," she said.

"Be a nonconformist. It's the style this season," I said.

That dreadful moment came when we were out on the dance floor. One advantage to dancing with men... it's never a question who is going to lead.

Allison solved the problem by immediately assuming the follower's position. That told me a lot. Now I knew what would be expected of me in other circumstances. It was fine with me. I'm a switch-hitter.

She felt good in my arms. You'd think to look at her that she might be a little too thin but I found that there was meat on them there bones.

She broke into my reverie by asking, "Why do you talk the way you do?"

"Huh?" I asked brightly.

"You know what I mean. Like a well-read Mickey Spillane character. Sarcastic and bitter."

"That is because what you see is just a shell of my former self," I said. "I have been buffeted about by the winds and tides of human experience and now I am a broken woman trying vainly to present a brave face to the world. I joke that others may laugh while I cry inside."

"Go to hell," she said pleasantly and snuggled closer to me.

I could feel her body against mine. Her soft breasts were pressed tight against me. At every step I could feel the length of her long thighs against mine.

Other people were dancing now. They kept feeding the jukebox and Allison and I kept dancing. A rock-and-roll number with a heavy beat came on. I tried the fish. In case you don't know, that's doing upright what rightly should be done horizontally.

Allison went into the fish like a pro. That was as good as giving me references.

"Let's get out of here," I said.

"Oh, do you have to leave so soon? I was hoping we could be together for a few more hours," Allison said.

"Fine with me. What about going back to your place?"

"No."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because I'm after a run-of-the-play contract and that's not the way to get it with you."

"Don't be silly. How do you know it'll make any difference to me whether you sleep with me on our first date or not?"

"Just a feeling I have about you," Allison answered.

"Nonsense. You're a prude and you're trying to put the blame on me."

"Think that if you want but it's not true. I'd love to go to bed with you tonight, Sloane, but I'm going to want to go to bed with you in the future too. I just think it'd be better for both of us if we don't rush it."

"Why did you give me the free sample on the dance floor then? You knew what you were doing and what effect it was having on me."

Allison smiled so sweetly I wanted to push her face in and said, "Call it an audition. I said I was after a run-of-the-play contract."

"This show just closed out of town." I said and pushed her ahead of me to the checkroom.

We got our coats and left the bar. I should have just dropped her there but that was no neighborhood to let a girl walk around in alone. I walked her home.

In front of her building I gave her her last chance. "Changed your mind?" I asked.

She hadn't. I left without saying another word.

I wasn't going to get hung up over any two-bit broad. The nerve of her to work me up that way for a big letdown! I took a cab to Lorraine's.

Lorraine answered the door in her pajamas.. She had been sleeping. "What have you got against telephones?" she asked.

"They would have slowed me up," I said. I walked straight into the bedroom and started divesting myself of encumbering clothing.

"Don't you want a drink or some coffee first?" Lorraine asked.

"No. Waste of time." I grabbed Lorraine and slipped my hand under her pajama top. I cupped her breast in my hand, teasing the nipple with my thumb.

"Hey, aren't you taking a lot for granted?" Lorraine asked.

"Yes and you don't mind a bit. You go for the caveman approach and you know it."

"You bastard," Lorraine said.

"So I'm a bastard. I'm a lot of other things too. You can tell me all about it afterward. We've got more important things to take care of now." I guided her toward the bed. When we were almost there she stumbled and fell and I was on top of her in a second.

"For Christ's sake, let's at least get into the bed," Lorraine said.

"O.K." I can be obliging.

We got into the bed. I kissed her hard.

Lorraine had an educated pelvis. She pushed it against me rhythmically until I thought I'd flip. I wanted her to wait for it. She'd appreciate it more that way.

I took her breasts in my hands like they were two oranges to be squeezed. I trailed my tongue leisurely from the tip of one to the tip of the other. Lorraine was going out of her head.

She was bruising the hell out of me with that overactive pelvis of hers. I got back at her with my hip bone. Placed properly it was punishing and I had it right where it would hurt. Healthy girl that Lorraine, she pushed herself up against me like she was going for it. If that was what she dug I was more than willing to give it to her.

"Give it to me, baby. Give it to me," Lorraine breathed.

We went crazy. She was holding me so tightly I thought I'd come out on her other side. We were making it together in perfect rhythm.

I could feel Lorraine's body stiffening against mine just as I felt myself beginning to reach a peak. But then I went dead inside. Lorraine was groaning ecstactically but I wasn't with her.

"That night between her lips and mine thy shadow fell, Cynara." Cynara alias Allison Millay. That's what went wrong. I was in bed with the wrong woman and I couldn't go through with it.

Lorraine was so gone she didn't know the difference. Afterward, I just pretended I was played out and went to sleep.

* * *

The next day was a Saturday. I didn't have to go to work so I stayed in bed late.

I could hear Lorraine puttering around the apartment. She was singing softly under her breath. She sounded happy. I had brought a little sunshine into her life. You can twist anything around to your own advantage if you try hard enough.

I lay in bed thinking about Allison. I wanted her. Bad. She had succeeded better than she thought.

I was just about to call her on the bedside phone when Lorraine came in. Ordinarily I liked to talk to Lorraine.

She's a bright kid and easy to get along with. But that day she irritated me.

I made up a story about a dentist's appointment and left.

I could hear the telephone ringing as I unlocked the door to my apartment. It was Allison.

"I was so worried," she said. "I called you last night to see if you got home safely."

"I stayed with a friend," I said.

There was a silence on the other end of the line. Then Allison said, "Well, I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Call me some time."

"Allison, don't hang up. Are you free today? We could go to a movie or something."

There was a definite note of triumph in her voice when she agreed to meet me.

The bitch insisted that we go to a movie. So we went. I didn't pay any attention to the film. Allison's nearness was too distracting.

I had to face facts. I had to play the game her way. That's the only way I'd get what I wanted. I was beginning to have a suspicion that she’d be getting what she wanted too.

So we left the movie and went to dinner in the Village and then to another gay bar. We drank and talked. I wanted her so much I would have raped her on the spot if I had thought I could get away with it.

We stayed at the bar late and then took a cab uptown. Allison squeezed my hand as she got out of the cab at her house. Big deal. I stayed in the cab and went on home. Boy, was I hung.

On Monday Judy told me I had been promoted to Production Assistant. That meant the same salary, same kind of work but I'd be working at the studio part of the time and the rest of the time in the office.

I lit out for the studio like a bat out of hell. Allison would be rehearsing there.

They were rehearsing in a big studio. All around them technicians were arranging lights, measuring camera angles and distances, and taking light readings. Carpenters were still working on some of the sets. The painters were sitting around looking bored waiting for the sets to be ready for painting. Happy was running around getting in everybody's way and screaming about how much it was costing him for the painters to be idle.

It was utter pandemonium. Compared to this the noise in the office was nothing.

Allison was feeding lines to one of the actors in a corner of the studio. I ran towards her, nearly breaking my neck a hundred times on cables, lumber and miscellaneous workingmen that were strewn all over the floor.

I was brought up short by the impact of an arm suddenly thrust across my diaphragm. "What the hell...?" I gasped.

It was Perry Matthews, the director. "Sloane, am I glad to see you here! Look, I called Judy and asked her to have you put on this job this morning so that you'd get Happy out of our hair. He's driving everybody nuts. We'll never get anything done this way. Darling, Happy's a great guy. Salt of the earth. But I'll strangle him if he tells me how to do my job once more," he said.

"Take it easy, Perry," I said. "I'll get rid of him for you."

I found Happy lying on a huge four-poster bed that was one of the props. He was talking to the crew manager and giving him hell about not having the sets ready. The crew manager was trying to point out that they didn't need the sets for rehearsals and that shooting wouldn't start for two days and everything would be ready by then. Happy wouldn't let him get a word in earwise.

I waited until the great man paused for breath and then marched over and started to give him the treatment Judy-style.

"Happy, you look awful. I talked to Mrs. Broadman today" (a lie) "and she told me you only got two hours sleep last night and that you didn't even have any breakfast this morning." (a good guess.) You had to treat Happy like a child, a backward one at that, if you wanted to get anywhere with him.

"Darling, you should have my troubles. I don't have time to blow my nose with all these schlemiels trying to screw me right and left," he said.

"I should have your money," I said. "Come on, take me out to breakfast and I'll let you tell me all your troubles."

He sat up on the edge of the bed and gave me a pathetic look from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. "I can't leave, baby. This place would fall apart without me."

"We'll give them an object lesson. We'll leave them all alone. Then, when we come back, we can show them how they've done everything wrong and how much they need us."

"Jesus, you're beginning to talk like Judy. Can't I even get some respect from my own employees?" he asked.

"I doubt it," I said. "Come on, let's get some coffee." I walked him out of the place fast before he could change his mind. Allison hadn't even noticed that I had been there.

We found a luncheonette about a block away. It was one of those frighteningly sterile places. You know, tile floor, marble topped counter, white walls, sexless waitress. We took a table near the window and then both started giggling when we noticed the cafe espresso machine. It was sandwiched in behind the counter between a chrome-plated electric juicer and a chromier milkshake machine.

Over breakfast Happy let me in on some of the ins behind the ins of the Harold Broadman Office. It took a lot of effort to keep from vomiting.

With a perfectly straight face Happy filled me in on the mechanics of financing his various projects. It seemed perfectly logical to him that he milked one client to pay for the schemes of another. He had corporate setups with most of his clients, Broadson, Inc. with Amy Ferguson; Banman, Inc. with Marv Banner; Dalman, Inc. with Dallas Weaver, etc. As president and treasurer of the corporations he was able to manipulate the funds.

So, for instance, if he saved money for Broadson, Inc. when making the Ferguson pilot he would use the dough for backing Marv Banner, the comedian. And if Marv Banner got his own show that way then Happy would make more money in commissions. Very simple, very crooked.

I had thought before this that something was peculiar but I hadn't quite understood what was going on. There were little things like making personal long-distance calls on one of the corporation's phones, charging a corporation for office supplies that hadn't been ordered, taking money for his own use from the petty cash box, etc. The whole set-up stank to high heaven.

But if I wanted to stay in that business I had to expect shady goings-on. At least I knew how Happy Broadman stole his money. If I had gone to work for another producer, I might have had to wait longer to figure out his angles. Like I've said before, there's no business like show business.

Happy and I checked back at the studio before heading downtown. We were both due back at the office in a half hour and it was a forty-five minute ride back but I had to fight like a tiger to get him out of the place.

While Happy was bugging Perry Matthews about something or other, I went over to Allison.

"How about dinner tonight?" I asked.

"I'd love to, Sloane. But I can't. Miss Ferguson wants to rehearse with me tonight," Allison said.

"What?"

"She has to do her show in the afternoon so she called a rehearsal for tonight at her apartment."

"Full cast?" I asked.

"No, just me. She wants to rehearse the scene where she comes into the office and I interview her for a job. What's wrong with that? You don't look like you like the idea."

"Nothing's wrong, Goldilocks. Not a thing. And it better stay that way," I said. "Forget it. I suppose she could really want to rehearse with you. Call me when you get home, will you?"

* * *

Back at the office Judy was waiting for me so that she could go out to lunch. As soon as she left I started prowling through the files and checking up on some of the things Happy had told me about.

It was incredible. An accountant probably would have spotted more conniving than I did but I saw enough. Happy had those contracts so set up that no matter what happened he would always come out on top.

He's a crook, I thought, but he's something else besides, he's a damn fine agent. Some of these people came into this office when they couldn't make enough to pay the rent and he built them up to where they are now. Maybe that's the price an actor has to pay for success. While your agent is pushing you toward the top he's also got a knife in your back but you're moving so fast it only feels like a pin-prick.

Marv Banner's files were the most horrifying. Happy had him coming and going. Poor Marv didn't see half the money he made.

That was a typical case. I knew Marv's history. He had come into the office when he was so poor he couldn't afford a pair of gloves. Judy told me that he came into her office one winter afternoon when his hands were so chapped they were bleeding. He had kept her laughing for four hours straight. She had been so impressed that she had talked Happy into seeing Marv. Happy usually didn't handle people who weren't already near the top but he had seen Marv's potential and had taken him on. So now, five years later, Marv was getting $5000 and more for one night appearances.

It was a knotty moral problem. All I could figure out was that I didn't like it. I determined to get away from that office and the whole lousy set-up as soon as possible.

That meant making it on my own. No more offices of any sort. I wanted to be a playwright. That meant writing plays. No more goofing.

I rushed home after work and got my typewriter out from under the couch. It was covered with dust. I hadn't touched it in months.

I went through the usual routine—laying out paper and carbons, sharpening pencils, making coffee, re-arranging the paper, day-dreaming, cursing myself out for being lazy, typing page one at the top of the sheet, making more coffee, etc. I've been writing for years now and I always go through the same stalling process each time before getting to work.

What I needed first was a plot. Brilliant thought. I chewed the erasers off three pencils trying to think of one. I went through ideas for scripts about everything from a despoiled virgin trying to make her way in a hostile world to one about a cowboy who made some rustlers take to them thar hills. I was getting nowhere.

At last I hit on an idea. A play about a woman Governor. A comedy. I'd have Tullulah Bankhead play the Governor and Jack Benny would be her husband. Bright are the dreams of youth.

I started typing out some dialogue, cackling merrily to myself. I didn't know if the dialogue was actually any good but I was having a ball writing it.

Everything was great until the telephone rang. It was Allison. She called to tell me that Amy was going to keep her there rehearsing until late that night so she wouldn't be able to see me. Maybe tomorrow.

Suddenly I didn't feel like writing any more. Nothing seemed very funny. I tried to read and couldn't keep my mind on the book so I went out for a walk.

There's a little park bordering the East River near where I lived. I sat down on a bench and gazed at the water. Light shone on the water from the hospital on City Island. The absurd little ferryboat chugged back and forth carrying hospital workers from and to the island.

Boy, did I feel rotten. Lower than a snake's garterbelt. I had been plenty depressed before but this was different. This was an alive pain where the other had been like a dead thing that dragged me down.

I didn't want to face it but I had to. I had thought that no one would ever mean anything to me again. And there I was sitting by myself looking at the river and being jealous. No use denying it to myself—I was in love with Allison Millay.

This time it was going to work out. It had to! I couldn't stand being hurt that way again. I'd fight with everything in me for Allison's love.

CHAPTER 5

I don't know if Amy Ferguson was being clever or if the whole thing was the result of coincidence. All I know was that for the next week and a half, while I was supposed to be at the studio mornings, she kept me hopping. I had to walk her dog, do her shopping, bring her breakfast, pick up her costumes, etc. I couldn't say anything. It was all part of my job. I was Amy Ferguson's patsy as long as her own secretary wasn't there. Of course, Chris Salem never came to the studio. Amy had too much for her to do at home.

Allison and I waved to each other across the studio and talked on the telephone at night. That was all the contact we had. She couldn't stay out late nights because of early calls in the morning. Besides, many nights (too many) Amy called for special rehearsals.

In spite of everything, I didn't lose my awe of Amy Ferguson. She was still an extraordinarily charming and dynamic woman. And there was nothing I could pin on her. She hadn't done anything on the surface that was incriminating. I didn't know if she was being discreet or if my suspicions were right.

Marv Banner was back in town. He had completed an engagement in Chicago and was between jobs. By his own choice. Marv could have played lots of dates but he insisted on a two-week vacation. Happy was furious but he couldn't do anything. You can lead a comedian into a contract but you can't make him be funny when he doesn't want to work.

Marv hung around the office all the time. In the morning he would go around from Jack to Steve to Judy to Happy to me, getting in our way and interfering with our work but making us laugh so much we couldn't shoo him away. Afternoons he would go to a bar and return about five with a couple of females he had picked up in the bar. Between Marv's women and Happy's the office looked like a ladies' room in Port Said between five and six.

The shooting on the pilot was finished Friday. We had to wait two weeks for the film editor to release it for viewing.

Happy invited everybody on the production crew and the starring actors up to his house in the country for the weekend. Somehow Allison got invited too. She was the only bit player who was asked. Wonder who's idea that was?

Because Marv would have spent the weekend getting himself into trouble without Happy chaperoning him everywhere, he was invited too.

We got to Happy's place in time for cocktails Friday night. I needed that drink. Allison was so near and yet so far. I couldn't even talk to her beyond making casual remarks that everyone else would hear. Besides, dear Amy made sure that Allison was with her every minute.

I did my best to drink myself into oblivion but I was an amateur at it. There were professionals in the crowd. By the time we went into dinner Marv and Happy were feeling no pain whatsoever.

Dinner was mostly liquid. The women drank wine with their meal but the men stuck to Scotch.

Dinner lasted three drunken hours. Marv kept everybody glued to the table with a long obscene monologue which even I in my misery had to admit was riotously funny.

After dinner I went to bed. I didn't want to hang around with that crowd any longer. It was agony to watch what was going on. Amy was turning on all her charm for Allison's benefit and Chris Salem was following the two of them around like a dyspeptic spaniel.

I was to share a room with Chris and Allison was sharing one with Judy. Wonder who arranged that? I undressed and got in bed. The noise from downstairs should have kept me awake but I had been drinking so much that I don't know whether I fell asleep or passed out.

I couldn't have been asleep long when I was awakened by a knocking on the door.

"Chris?" I called.

The door opened. It was Marv Banner and Perry Matthews. They were so drunk they had to hang on to the door frame to keep upright.

"What do you want?" I asked with as much authority as I could summon up in my panic.

"We missed you at the party," Marv said as he came into the room. He stood by the side of my bed and leered down at me. "We came up to say hello."

"Hello. Now get out," I said.

"She told us to get out," Marv said to Perry. "I don't think that's very friendly, do you, Perry?"

"Not very friendly at all," Perry said. "Girl should be friendly."

"If you two don't get out of here this minute, I'll show you how unfriendly I can be," I said.

"Marv, I don't like her attitude. To hell with her. Let's go get a drink," Perry said. He dragged Marv out of the room.

As soon as they left Allison came in to say good night. She was a couple of sheets to the wind too.

"Lady, you're stoned," I said.

"I know," Allison said. "That's why I came upstairs. The rest are still downstairs drinking. I'm played out. I'm going to sleep."

"Wish we were sharing a room."

"Me too. I've missed you, darling. Now that the pilot's finished we'll be able to see more of each other," Allison said.

"Kiss me good night?"

Allison bent down and put her arms around me. Just as our lips were about to meet, Chris came into the room.

"Hi," she said. "I think you two had the right idea. I'm bushed. You know, the rest of those fools are still down there drinking like there's no tomorrow."

She acted as if she hadn't thought there was anything peculiar about our position. Maybe she hadn't noticed. She looked pretty blind.

Allison left for her own room.

"Judy asked me to tell you to leave the door unlocked," Chris called to her as she was leaving. "She said to tell you she'll be extra quiet when she comes in so she won't wake you. She won't be up for a couple of hours at least, I'd guess. Judy's carrying on a mad flirtation with some guy down there."

We went to sleep. I had a horrible dream in which I was being beaten up by some old woman who was amazingly strong. People were fighting all around us. I could hear them groaning in pain and thudding as they hit the floor.

Then I woke up. The noises weren't in my dream. They were coming from the room next door. Allison and Judy's room.

I jumped out of bed. Chris was sleeping the sleep of the besotted. I ran to Allison's room and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I tried the knob. It was unlocked. I opened the door.

Marv Banner, Perry Matthews and the crew manager, Herb Talman, were in there. So was Allison. The men were even drunker than they had been before.

Perry was holding Allison by the arms from behind. Marv was in front of her. Herb was sitting on the bed watching and egging Marv on. They had her pajama top off and Marv was trying to remove the bottoms. Allison was kicking wildly but Marv was so drunk he didn't seem to feel the blows. Perry's hand over her mouth reduced her screams to faint moanings.

I rushed at Marv and tried to pull him off. With one sweep of his massive arm he sent me careening into the bed and Herb's arms.

"Hold her there," Marv told him.

Herb fell on top of me and held me prisoner. Jesus, he as strong. I fought like a tiger but I couldn't budge him from where we were lying I could see the others but I was helpless to stop them.

Marv gave up the effort of taking off Allison's pajama bottoms. He just reached inside the waistband and ripped them off her.

She was naked now. Even in my fury I couldn't help noting how beautiful she looked. The smooth golden skin as flawless. And, as I had expected, she had flesh where woman should have it.

Marv ran his beefy hands all over Allison's body. His little pig eyes were shining with excitement. Then he bit her. Hard on her breast. Allison kicked harder but Perry had her in a firm grip.

"Pretty girl," Marv cooed. "Be nice to me, pretty girl.”

"Hey," Perry said, "get on with it. I want some too.”

Marv assaulted her. She wriggled and fought to get away from him. Perry held her closer, rubbing himself up against her with obvious pleasure. Marv finished. He offered to switch places with Perry but the other man liked it too much where he was. He was still holding her tight but his eyes were closed and he was moving rhythmically against her.

I watched with horror and a repulsive fascination. The woman I loved was being raped and I couldn't do anything bout it. I was helpless and the thing that was holding me prisoner had ceased to be human to me. It was like all the forces in the universe that fight against my kind of love were weighing down on me.

But it was a man who was holding me. He had been lying still, a dead weight that I couldn't budge but then I felt him beginning to move against me. Herb was getting his kicks too. It didn't bother him a bit that I was fully clothed.

Perry and Herb got what they were after at about the same moment. Then all three of them calmly walked out of the room as if nothing had happened.

Allison was lying on the floor sobbing. I ran over to her and put my arms around her. I couldn't say anything. What do you say after something like that?

Allison twisted and squirmed in my arms. Her body racked with sobs that seemed to be tearing her apart. I lifted her up in my arms and carried her to the bed. Slowly, she began to calm down.

Judy came into the room.

"You're sleeping next door with Chris tonight," I barked at her. "I'm staying here."

"Why? What happened? This place looks like you had a brawl here. What's Allison crying about?" Judy asked.

"Never mind all that," I said. "We'll talk about it in the morning."

She shrugged and left. She was too drunk to argue.

We lay on the bed for a long time. Allison curled up like a child in my arms, sobbing quietly until she fell asleep.

I got up and went into the other bed. Suppose someone had come in in the morning and found us in the same bed? What a laugh! After what had happened we had to be careful about our reputations!

When I woke up in the morning I found Allison already dressed and sitting in a chair.

"Good morning, darling," I said.

"I'm glad you're awake. I've been waiting to talk to you," she replied in a flat voice.

I got up and went to embrace her.

"Sloane, please!" She pushed me away.

I went back to the bed and sat on the edge.

"I—I'm sorry," Allison said. "I didn't mean to yell at you. It's not your fault. It's just that I couldn't stand to be touched now. Not after last night."

"I'm the one who should apologize."

"Sloane, please, let's not talk like this. Not like strangers. I need you. We've got to talk this over."

"What is there to discuss? We'll borrow a car and go into town and report Marv, Perry and Herb to the police. Then we'll go to a doctor to make sure you're all right. Then we'll go back to New York," I said.

"Don't hate me for what I'm going to say, Sloane. Try to understand." Allison reached over from where she was sitting and clasped my hands in hers. "I want to be an actress. I want that more than I want anything else in the world. For that reason, I'm going to pretend that last night never happened."

"But you can't! You..."

"Hear me out," Allison continued. "I don't like acting this way any more than you do. It sickens me that I even have to talk to you about it. You're the last person in the world I want to be in on this whole mess. But be that as it may, you are in on it.

"Now, as I see it, I'm the one who can't afford to have the police know. Sure, it could wreck the men's careers and whole lives if the story got out, but think of what it would mean to me. I'd never be able to get a job in the theatre again. Every producer in town would remember what I did to Marv Banner. The public would look at me and the only thing they would think would be something about how I probably asked for what I got." She buried her head in her hands and continued in a muffled whisper. "It's horrible. The whole thing is horrible. Last night was hideous but I think acting the way I am is worse. But this world is pretty horrible and if you want to get anywhere in it you have to do some things that make you hate yourself. The only thing I ask is that you keep quiet about last night for my sake.

"No, I'm going to ask one thing more from you. Sloane, don't let what you saw last night make any difference between us. Please, Sloane, I need you more now than ever."

"Allison, Allison, baby, I love you. What difference could last night make?"

In answer, Allison pulled me close and put her arms around me. We hugged each other lightly, careful of our bruised bodies.

About half the guests came down for breakfast. The rest of them just couldn't make it. Those who did were a sorry lot. Hangovers had hit them like the bubonic plague.

There was no conversation at breakfast. Those who could eat, ate in silence. The motley crew grew motlier by the minute as others stumbled down to join us. They mutely drank coffee and avoided each other's eyes.

Happy finally came bubbling down the stairs. He had been been up for hours. Been out riding around the countryside, he informed the horrified assemblage. He was all they needed. Everyone felt worse after his arrival.

I sympathized with them. I was hung-over and more. I didn't know what aches came from overdrinking and which ones from Herb.

Allison, Happy, Judy and I went out to the terrace. Happy recommended a bit of the hair of the dog. We all groaned in unison but when he had wheeled the bar cart out onto the terrace and started mixing the drinks we changed our minds. Anything would be better than going on this way.

After two Bloody Marys I began thinking that I might possibly live until lunchtime. Then Amy Ferguson came out on the terrace to join us and I decided the effort wouldn't be worth it.

Amy was another one like Happy. She was as bright and chipper as if she had been drinking milk exclusively last night.

I watched Allison closely to see if there would be any change in her behavior. The difference was slight but it was there. She was polite and friendly with Amy but there was an inner remoteness about Allison that was new. She responded to Amy's flirting half-heartedly.

Was she still in a state of shock or had she reached some sort of decision about me? I had no way of knowing.

Marv, Perry and Herb didn't come down until after lunch. It was incredible but they didn't remember what they had done the night before. I watched them closely, listened to the way they talked to Allison and me. There was no mistaking it. They wouldn't have been able to carry off that much of an act. They had been so drunk that they couldn't recall what had happened. Or, if they did, they didn't remember who the girls had been.

I took Allison aside and discussed the matter with her. She had noticed too. We were the only ones who knew about it.

Allison confessed to me that she wasn't feeling very well. She had taken quite a beating the night before. We had to get her to a doctor.

Luckily, Happy was taking some of the men out to the golf course. We asked him to drive us in to the village so we could do some shopping. The ride was torturous. It took us a half hour to reach the town. Allison got sicker every moment. She was perspiring and her face had a greenish tinge.

Those damn fool men teased her, presuming that she was suffering from a hangover. Allison took their teasing good-naturedly, but I wanted to kill them. After what they had done to her the night before this was the last straw.

Allison could hardly speak by the time we got to the doctor so I had to do all the talking. He was an old country doctor who had known the Broadmans for years. It was quite a job convincing him that it would be better for all concerned if he never breathed a word of our visit. He finally agreed.

I waited for him to complete his examination in an agony of suspense. If something were wrong with Allison I'd never forgive myself. I knew it was irrational, that I had done everything I could but still I felt that I could have done more. I've got that kind of mind. I've got to question my motives about everything. Was it possible that I hadn't done all I could because I resented Allison's holding out on me sexually?

No, that was ridiculous. Allison would be mine in the near future and I knew it. I wasn't that childish that I couldn't wait. Nothing that had happened the night before was my fault.

What if Allison were pregnant? That would be the ultimate irony. But of course we wouldn't be able to find out about that for a little while.

The doctor called me in to talk to him while Allison was getting dressed. He said there was nothing physically wrong with her beyond some superficial bruises. But emotionally she was in a bad state. She needed rest and quiet.

Well, that was a hot one. Rest and quiet at Happy Broadman's? She might as well recuperate in a boiler factory.

"You're not going back there," I announced to Allison as we were leaving the doctor's office. "We're going back to New York. Right away, as soon as we can get a train. I'll call Karen and tell her your grandmother died and that you have to go to her funeral. I'll say that you're very upset and I'm going with you so you won't have to be alone." I stopped talking for a moment. Allison didn't say anything. "Is that o.k. with you?"

"Fine," she said.

"All right then, I'll ask Judy to bring our luggage back to New York with her on Monday."

I steered Allison into a drugstore, seated her at the counter, ordered a cup of coffee for her, and left her to make the call. Oh, I was great at taking over—after the crisis had passed.

The poor baby sat at the counter staring at the mirror in front of her. She didn't even touch her coffee. I watched her while I was talking to Karen and she didn't move an inch the whole time.

I didn't feel so hot but compared with Allison I was ready to run in the Olympics. I hadn't taken as much of a beating as she had. Besides, I was a lot tougher inside. I'd seen too many very unpretty things during that year when I had bummed around New York.

We took the afternoon train to New York. Allison slept through the trip. I stared out the window and hated. Everybody and anything that had ever or ever could hurt Allison was my enemy. Especially that fat slob Marv Banner. And to think that a few days before I had been feeling sorry for the way Happy was taking advantage of him. Now I hoped that Happy would screw him blind.

* * *

I had to wake Allison up when we reached Grand Central. "Should we go to your apartment or mine?" I asked her.

"It doesn't matter. Your place, I guess," she answered.

All the way to my apartment in the cab Allison fought a losing battle to stay awake. She kept falling asleep and then jolting awake whenever we'd stop for a light.

I had to help Allison up the stairs to my flat. Once inside, she fell down on the couch in utter exhaustion. I took her clothes off and carried her into the bedroom. She seemed heavier than she had the night before. I must have been in quite a state myself to have been able to pick her up so easily. This time I staggered under her weight but I made it. I dumped her on the bed and went into the bathroom to draw a bath.

When I came back, Allison was lying just as I had left her with her eyes closed.

"Is that bath for me?" she murmured, her eyes still closed.

"If you want it."

"Yes. I want to wash myself until there's no trace of those beasts left on me."

I stayed with her while she bathed. She asked me to wash her back.

I knelt by the side of the tub and rubbed Allison's back vigorously. Her lovely body was covered with bruises but she kept asking me to rub harder. As if I could scrub away the bruises on her soul.

After her bath, Allison went back to her bed. She was asleep in minutes.

I puttered around the apartment cleaning up as quietly as I could. The place was a mess. I had let it go because there was no one to see the clutter but myself. Now Allison would be staying here and I wanted the place to be immaculate for her.

I checked on Allison before making dinner. She was still asleep. It would be silly to wake her up so I made fried chicken. The chicken would keep until she was hungry and then she could eat it cold.

I bathed before going to bed. I looked at myself in the door mirror. I had some pretty ugly black and blue marks myself. But inside I still felt clean. Those brutes hadn't touched me inside as they had Allison.

Allison was lying in a diagonal across the bed. I took a blanket and settled down on the living room couch.

I had been sleeping for several hours when I heard Allison calling for me. I ran into the bedroom.

Allison was sitting up in bed, her eyes wide with fright. "Stay with me, darling. Please. I'm afraid to be alone."

I tried to get her to eat something but she said that she was too tired. All she wanted to do was sleep in my arms.

I got into bed and put my arms around her gently. Allison sighed like a contented child. "Stay with me, Sloane," she said. And then she was asleep again.

I awoke late in the morning. Sunday morning noises were coming up from the street. You can always tell Sunday in New York City. The very air seems to smell different. There's a peace about the city.

"Awake?"

I jumped. I had thought that Allison was still sleeping.

"Yes. How do you feel this morning?"

"Better. Still tired though," she giggled.

I was so happy to hear that giggle that I almost kissed her. But I remembered her swollen lips in time.

"Some guest you've got, my love. Bet you thought you had a regular Rip Van Winkle on your hands."

"I was glad you could sleep," I said. "Hungry?"

"And how. I haven't eaten since the day before yesterday."

"Stay here. I'll make breakfast and bring it in to you," I said.

"Divine. Utterly and completely divine. I've been waiting all my life for someone to bring me breakfast in bed."

"Let's hope you don't have to go through the same sort of thing again in order to get breakfast in bed. The goal is worthy but is it worth the trouble?" I ran out of the room in time to escape the pillow Allison flung at my head.

After breakfast Allison slept for a few more hours. Then she got up and stumbled into the living room where I was lying on the couch reading.

"Hi," she said, flopping down on top of me. "I'm alive. For the moment, anyway."

We watched television. There was a good movie on. Allison lay in my arms on the couch. She was more asleep than awake. Putting the television set on was a gimmick on my part. If I hadn't Allison would have felt it necessary to make conversation and she was just too worn out.

We spent the rest of the day that way. Allison ate a little but she couldn't hold down much. Most of the time she slept or looked at television blankly.

CHAPTER 6

The next day was Monday. I had to go to work. Allison woke up long enough in the morning to assure me that she would be alright until I could return after six.

I hated the senseless bustle and noise of the office more that day than ever before. The whole lousy set-up of show business was responsible in a way for what had happened to Allison. But I was good at my job. No one knew that this time I really meant the sarcastic comments I was noted for.

Happy and Judy didn't make it back from the country until noon. About noon there was a call.

"Harold Broadman Office," I answered.

"Wow! Dig that Madison Avenue voice. Has anyone ever told you you sound like a sexy General MacArthur?"

That's one thing I haven't mentioned yet. My voice is one of the few things about myself I really like. It's low and musical. I've heard recordings of it and I know what it sounds like. Sort of insinuatingly sexy.

"They've never put it quite that way before," I answered.

"Enough compliments. On to more important matters. Is Happy in?" he asked.

"No. Not yet. Any message?"

"No. I'll call back. Hey, wait a minute, maybe you can help me. I'm Sylvan Miller, the film editor for the Ferguson pilot. I've got some bad news to tell Happy. They ran way over budget on the shooting and now the editing is running into some complications. It's going to cost him about twice our estimate," he said.

"How can I help you?"

"This is the problem. We both know Happy, doll. Fridays you can't talk to him because he can't wait to get away from business for the weekend. Mondays he comes back with a hangover and hates everybody. What I want to know is, when do you think would be the best time to talk to him?"

"Get him in schul on Saturday," I said.

Sylvan laughed. "Forget it. I'll take my chances on calling back later."

Judy and Happy came in. Sylvan was right, Happy was in one of his impossible moods. Not really impossible if you know him. He bellows like a bull one minute and the next he doesn't even know that he's been insulting.

Judy finally couldn't take his screaming any more. She told him that she'd quit if he didn't shut up and then shut his door so she couldn't hear his answer. Happy knew that she didn't mean it. She wouldn't leave him if she were offered twice the salary. It was just their way of threatening each other with all kinds of calamities.

Closing his door didn't do me any good. Happy just used the intercom system to scream at me. He kept me hopping that day, I tell you. It was suddenly imperative that he talk to people from Alaska to Liverpool. I charged the calls to Marv Banner's phone with pleasure.

Allison called at three. I was so glad to hear from her that I ignored Happy's bellowing while we were talking. She said that she had just called to find out how I was. I knew better. I knew that she needed to talk to me for reassurance. I also knew that I was loving her more than ever.

I was on the phone when a young man got off the elevator. I waved him over to a chair and signalled with upraised finger that I'd be with him in a minute.

He was an interesting looking guy. Ordinarily he was the kind of guy who wouldn't be noticed. You know, the sort who seems to be part of the wallpaper. In the Harold Broadman Office he stuck out like a tuba player in a string quartet.

I finished with the call and turned toward him. "It sounds even better in person. Your voice, I mean," he said.

"Oh, thanks. You must be Sylvan Miller."

"Right. How's chances of seeing Happy sometime in the near future?"

"I don't know. He's busy right now. Wait a minute, I'll ask him if he can see you." I got Happy on the intercom.

"Happy says he'll be with you in about twenty minutes if you want to wait."

"In other words an hour, right?" Sylvan asked.

"Check. Going to wait?"

"Why not? It's his money. If he wants to pay me for sitting around here it's all right with me."

I had a lot of work to do so I couldn't keep talking to Sylvan. I was highly aware of his presence, though. Not only did he look like an anomaly in that office but he complicated matters by reading a book while he was waiting. It was William James' Varieties of Religious Experience. For a wild moment I wondered if they were going to adapt it for a musical spectacular. In this business you never know.

Finally Happy opened the door to his office. It was like a signal. From the moment they saw each other Happy and Sylvan went at it. The verbal feathers flew. I had to admire Sylvan, he didn't let Happy's screams affect him. He calmly held to his point... if Happy wanted the pilot to be any good this was no time to quibble about a few hundred dollars. A lot of good or a lot of damage could be done in the cutting room.

Sylvan won.

After he had left Happy commented to me, "That Miller boy's all right. Knows his stuff."

That was so typical of Happy. He respected anyone who wouldn't let him get away with anything. Too many people backed down when he yelled at them.

Judy came out into my office. "Planning to spend the night?" she asked.

I glanced at my watch. It was 6:15. The afternoon had flown by on frenetic wings.

I wanted to take a cab home but I forced myself to take the subway. Had to be careful with money. No telling when Allison would be ready to work again and I might have to tide her over for a while.

I opened the door with my key in case she should be sleeping. I tip-toed into the bedroom. She wasn't there. Not in the bathroom or kitchen either.

At last I found a note on the coffee table in the living room. Allison had gone home. She asked me to call her.

I dialed her number. "Allison, are you out of your head?" I yelled at her when she answered.

"Don't be silly, darling. I'm all right. The rest did me a world of good. I wanted to wait until you got home but I've got a class tonight so I had to rush home to change."

"You're in no condition to go to a class."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm perfectly all right," she said. "Can you meet me after class?"

I agreed to meet her. I had three hours to kill so I went out and had dinner in a Hungarian restaurant in the neighborhood. Then I went down to the river. I sat on the same bench. I should have taken out a lease on the thing.

At 9:30 I was waiting in the lobby of the school for Allison. She came down the stairs fifteen minutes later.

Allison was wearing a black fitted coat. It looked good on her. She had washed her hair and gold highlights shone in the honey coloured pageboy. She looked tired but her eyes were glowing.

We went to a bar. We selected a corner booth so that we could sit next to each other on the curved bench and it wouldn't look incriminating. We had a couple of drinks.

"Coming back to my place?" I asked.

"No, not tonight. I have to go home and change clothes for the morning," Allison said.

"Can I stay with you tonight at your place?"

"I don't think that would be fair to you."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Sloane, let's face it. You can't sleep in the same bed with me again without wanting to make love. Well, I don't want it."

"Thanks, lady. It was kind of you to tell me before I started getting foolish ideas. What happened to that bit about the run-of-the-play contract?"

"That still stands," Allison said. "It's just for the present. I couldn't take sex now. Not after what happened. Please try to understand. It won't last forever. I'll be all right in a little while."

Yeah, I understood. That's my specialty—understanding when I have no other choice. But I didn't like it.

I put Allison in a cab and explained to her that I felt like walking home. I waited until her cab was out of sight then I hailed a cab and headed for the Village. I was on my way to find me a woman.

I couldn't blame Allison. Her behavior was perfectly logical. But, goddamn it I just couldn't take it. How long did she think she could just keep me waiting? I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life sitting by the river and feeling sorry for myself.

The Harbor was the big deal gay bar that season. It would have its moment of glory for a while and then the crowd would start going somewhere else. For the time being anyway it was the best lesbian pickup joint in town.

I took a seat at the end of the bar near the cigarette machine. That way I could see the length of the bar and, by turning slightly, take in the booths too. I had had two whiskey sours with Allison. Now I ordered the whiskey neat and double.

There was an all right looking specimen at the other end of the bar. She was sitting alone and she looked like she didn't like it. I saw her looking at me but I let her wait.

After a while I went over. "Mind if I join you?" I asked rhetorically, pulling up a stool as I spoke.

"Please do. My name's Betty Jean. I'm from Atlanta. Where are you from?"

"Vermont. I was brought up on a farm." Yeah, me and Laurence Olivier. For some crazy reason I felt like lying about everything that night.

"Oh, I wish I lived on a farm. I just love nature, don't you?" she asked, lifting her glass with both hands. The nails were so long and red that they frightened me.

"No, I like the city. I hate nature," I said.

"I like the city, too. I bet we like a lot of the same things," Betty Jean said.

"That remains to be seen." I tried to make that come out with a diabolical undertone but it fell flat.

"I like lots of things. You know, cultural things," Betty Jean ranted on. "But there are so few girls who really appreciate the finer things in life. You're different. I can tell. Do you like music?"

"Yes."

"I mean classical music."

"Yes, I like classical music. Some of it anyway."

"But I mean real longhair music. Like The Student Prince," Betty Jean said.

That did it. I told Betty Jean that I didn't go for eggheads and left.

Someone was sitting on the stool I had occupied. I stood next to her, digging her in the mirror. She wasn't bad. Not bad at all.

"Alone?" she asked me.

"I was."

"That's bad. That's real bad. I think we should do something about that situation. My name's Dinah."

I introduced myself, giving the name of Jean. Dinah asked if she could buy me a drink. I accepted. Things were looking up.

"What do you do?" she asked me.

"I work in a book store," I said.

She gave me a long searching look. "Crap," she said succinctly. "You don't look like the type."

"What's the type?"

"What you don't look like. What do you really do?"

I told her the truth, omitting names.

"You don't belong there. You shouldn't work at all. I can see you sitting at home taking care of the house for some real nice butch," she said.

I roared with laughter. She couldn't have been more off base.

"Don't laugh, baby," Dinah said. "I've met girls like you before. They just haven't met the right woman, that's why they're aggressive. What you need is a real butch to take care of you. Not one of those phonies you meet down the Village who are one thing today and another tomorrow. I don't go for that. I'm butch all the way and I always will be."

I didn't know what to say. What did she expect, congratulations or condolences?

"Now take you, baby," Dinah continued. "If you were my woman I'd have you dressed in nice little dresses all the time. Not those slacks like you're wearing now. They just don't suit you, baby. That's my bit."

"I like to wear slacks."

"You'll get over that, baby. You just need a good butch," she said.

I took out a cigarette and started to light it. Dinah snatched the lighter out of my hand and lit my cigarette for me.

"What are you trying to do, baby? Castrate me?" she asked.

I had had it. I told Dinah I had to go see a man about an anxiety syndrome and left.

I wanted to go home alone like I wanted to chop off my left toe. But staying in that playground for the feeble-minded was worse.

Luckily, by the time I got home I was tired enough to go right to sleep.

* * *

Now that the production end of the pilot was finished, I went back to drawing doodles. When the phones weren't ringing I didn't have much to do. That was bad because I kept moping over Allison. Sometimes I would think of Allison and Marilyn's face would appear before my mind's eye.

Allison and I agreed not to see each other until she was ready to go all the way. That is, Allison said that she felt it would be better if we didn't see each other and I went along with it because I had no other choice. Allison assured me that her room-mate, who was going to be in town for a week, was taking good care of her. It was sweet of her to tell me.

I tried to stay home nights and write but it was no good. Every night I ended up at the Harbor. I didn't pick up anyone. Just cruised and drank until one or two in the morning and then went home to bed.

Sylvan Miller called at least once a day. He kept asking me to go out with him but I made up excuses for each time. Finally I agreed to meet him for dinner one night just so I'd have something different to do. He was going to pick me up after work.

Pat Donnelly came in the office, crying. Happy wasn't in and from what I could gather from Pat's tearful story he hadn't been where he promised to be either. Pat had been waiting for him to come to her apartment since early morning.

Judy and I knew where Happy was but we couldn't tell Pat. He was at Toots Shor's having cocktails with Bibi Johnson. She was his latest. Bibi Johnson had been a successful nightclub/singer before she was in an automobile accident. It had taken her five years to get to the point where she was ready to perform again and the great man was going to get her jobs. Not as her agent but as her friend. No commission that way. Not in cash anyway.

Judy took Pat into her office. I went into Happy's office and shut the door so I wouldn't be heard. I called Happy at Toots'.

The lousy bastard told me to hold Pat there for an hour and then he'd come and pick her up. It didn't bother him a bit that Bibi probably expected him to have dinner with her.

Sylvan was waiting for me in the lobby when I finished.

"How about going down the Village for dinner?" he suggested. "I know a good Italian restaurant down there that isn't too expensive."

"Fine," I said. This would be a switch. Going down the Village with a man.

I let Sylvan think that it was the first time I had ever been to the restaurant. Actually, the walls of the place could have told him quite a story. I had been there with girls about fifteen times. Different girls each time.

We talked about the television industry through dinner. After the waitress had brought the coffee Sylvan leaned back in his chair and unbuttoned his jacket.

"O.k., enough of this noise," he said. "Let's get down to reality."

"You mean real real?" I asked, smiling. I was liking Sylvan Miller more each moment.

"Yeah, like gutty, like of the earth, like we will speak now of blood and sweat and tears and that which is contained in what we will henceforth refer to as the heart," Sylvan said.

"Must we? What ever happened to the tradition of people discussing roses?"

"That went out with the gazebo. Died a horrible death the day they invented prophylactics," Sylvan whispered mournfully.

"Ah, the gazebo. I remember when I was young and trifled away the sweet never to return days of my youth in romantic dalliance in a gazebo."

"Really? Who was she?"

That one brought me up short. "Who was who?" I asked brightly.

"The girl you frittered away your long lost youth with. Who was she?" Sylvan asked.

I looked down at the table top for a long moment but when I looked up he was still there. "How did you know?"

"I've read a lot of books." Sylvan leaned forward and took my hand in his. "It's all right. It doesn't make any difference to me."

"Takes one to know one?"

"You've got the picture, Sloane."

I relaxed. It was almost funny. Here I had been stalling him off because I thought he was trying to make me and he couldn't be less interested. "I'm glad, Sylvan. I didn't mean that to sound like an insult. You're an attractive, intelligent man but it just wouldn't have worked if you were interested in me romantically. I need a buddy, Sylvan. I'm glad you came along."

"Who is she? When a girl says she needs a buddy, she's in love and something's not going right."

I told him all about Allison. When I finished Sylvan had a rueful smile on his face.

"I had a similar experience myself. Two of the waitresses in my mother's restaurant got hold of me when I was fourteen. I won't go into the details but if anything made me what I am today, that did. I haven't been able to stand the thought of touching a woman's body since."

"I couldn't agree with you less," I said.

"That's why we can be friends." Sylvan leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Happy Broadman would have a fit if he knew. He told me some very interesting fantasies he had about you one day when he was up in the cutting room. He says that he's just waiting for the day when you leave the office so he can start operating."

"Over my dead body. Even if I went for men, I wouldn't have anything to do with Happy. Any woman who goes for him is asking for a broken heart."

"I know," Sylvan said. "I think he hates women unconsciously. For him making love to a woman is an act of hostility. He wouldn't treat them the way he does if he really liked them."

We went for a walk in Washington Square Park after dinner. There was the usual line-up of young men sitting on the railing waiting to be picked up.

"Smorgasbord," Sylvan said, looking at them.

"Want to make contact?" I asked him.

"I could use a little. Would you mind going home alone?"

"God no. I've done it enough times before for less worthy reasons," I assured him.

We agreed to go to the showing of the Ferguson pilot the next night together and I left. I felt good. I had a friend. It had been a long time since I had had a close relationship with anyone who wasn't my lover.

* * *

Sylvan and I were among the last ones to arrive at the sound studio. I saw Allison sitting in the back of the auditorium. She was sitting next to Chris Salem. There was an empty seat next to her which I knew was for Amy Ferguson.

We sat down in the front of the auditorium with the Broadman office staff. Happy beamed at Sylvan and me like a benevolent but insinuating father.

This was going to be everybody's first chance to see the completed pilot. There were two hundred people there, all friends of people connected with the pilot. The showing was for the purpose of recording the audience's laughter on the film. Getting a laugh track, it's called. It was good insurance to invite friends only, we'd all laugh like crazy.

Amy Ferguson gave a brief speech before the showing. She looked gorgeous in a rose coloured dress and a full length mink coat. Only those of us in the front rows could see the wrinkles under her heavy make-up.

Amy Ferguson gave us a brief sketch of the history of the script. She told us that Chris Salem had told her about a dream she had one night and that's where the idea for the series had come from. Then she thanked all the people who had worked on the production end of the pilot and her fellow actors. She looked straight at Allison while she was expressing her gratitude. Amy made a few half-humorous pleas for good humor from the audience and then sat down.

The film came on. It was a beautiful job. No wonder they had run $15,000 over budget. They had scenic effects in it that you usually see only in Hollywood movies. It was really funny, too. Even I couldn't help laughing out loud. The audience was convulsed. They'd get a terrific laugh track.

After the film was over, while we were waiting for the aisles to clear so we could get out, Sylvan whispered in my ear, "They've got a flop on their hands."

"What do you mean? The audience loved it."

"Sure," he said, "they would. I'm not saying that it's not a good film. It's one of the best I've ever seen. But the sponsors won't go for it. It's too sophisticated. They want mass audience appeal. People out in the sticks won't get it."

We had to stop talking because someone might hear us. Theatre people are the most suspicious in the world. If anyone heard us discussing the possibility that the pilot was no good they'd think we were putting a hex on it.

Allison was waiting in the lobby when we got there. She came running over. I just had time to whisper to Sylvan, "Enter the Blessed Damozel," before she reached us.

"I have to go to a party at Amy's but I'll be home by eleven," Allison said breathlessly. "I'll call you. You'll be home, won't you?"

I decided to play it to the hilt. I looked up at Sylvan as if he were the one who made the decisions. He got his cue.

"Miss Britain and I are going out for a while," he said sternly. "I hadn't planned to make it an early evening but I'll bring you home before eleven, Sloane, if there's something you'd rather do."

"No need to change our plans, darling," I said. "I can talk to Allison tomorrow. By the way, have you two met?" I introduced them. Sylvan and I left after making vague comments about Allison's bringing along a friend sometime so that we could all go out together.

The reaction didn't set in until we were in the cab heading toward my apartment. It had seemed the right thing to do at the time but now I wasn't so sure. Maybe Allison would think I was having an affair with Sylvan and didn't want her any longer. Maybe I had been too cold toward her.

Sylvan came up to the apartment with me. I sat on the couch and he lay with his head in my lap. It was nice to be able to do that with a man and not have him get the wrong idea. I told him my fears about Allison.

"Don't worry, darling... Christ, I hate that word. Everybody uses it and it's lost all meaning for them. I try to keep from using it myself but it slips out."

"Occupational hazard," I said.

"Yeah. Well anyway, as I was saying, I think that bit tonight will work like a charm. Allison was jealous. It was written all over her. That's good. She needs something to chew on. You've been too good to her. I know what happened to her that night was no picnic but she'll continue to wallow in self-pity about it if you let her. This way, she's got a real threat to deal with. She's got to think about something that's happening right this minute instead of licking old wounds. I think she'll snap out of it now."

"I hope you're right, Sylvan."

"I know I'm right," he said. "Want to bet she'll call at eleven on the chance that you might be home and continue calling all night if she has to until she gets you?"

"Think she will?" I asked.

"I'll take odds on it. And if you're the smart cookie I think you are, you won't answer the phone. Not until she's called a few times. Let her wait and worry. It'll be good for her soul." He got up. "I want a drink. Do you have anything here or should I go down and buy a bottle?"

I had half a bottle of rum. Sylvan thought he should get some more as insurance against running out.

He went to the liquor store and returned in a few minutes with the rum and a dozen bottles of Coke.

I had the glasses and ice and the lime all ready.

"Lime juice is for amateurs," he said. "I like my Cuba Libres made with lemon juice."

I had a bottle of condensed lemon juice in the refrigerator. We made the drinks with that. They were good. Tarter than usual.

We were on our second drink when the phone rang. Sylvan looked at his watch. "10:35, she must be anxious."

"Maybe I ought to answer it. Maybe it's not Allison," I said.

"Is there anyone who would be likely to call you that you really want to talk to besides Allison?" he asked. "If you answer that phone you're running the risk of blowing our whole scheme. If it's not Allison, whoever it is can call you tomorrow."

The phone stopped ringing. "How come you're such a schemer? I asked. I thought that was a woman's bit."

"Not where I play marbles it isn't. Gay boys play games with each other all the time. Especially the real feminine ones, the screaming queens. They've thought of tricks that would outdo a hustler."

"Must make life pretty hectic."

"You don't know the half of it," Sylvan said bitterly. "Sometimes I envy you girls. There's no permanency with the boys. One couple in a thousand stays together for longer than a couple of months. Most of them are just interested in one night stands. At least girls sometimes settle down together."

"You sound like you want to go straight. That's the only way to find real security," I reminded him.

"Doll, I'm like that guy in the gag. You know, the one about the two faggots who walk into a bar and see a beautiful looking woman sitting at the bar. One of the queens turns to the other and says, 'When I see a gorgeous woman like that I sometimes wish I were a lesbian.' I'm like that. I can't imagine myself not being gay."

The phone rang again. I jumped.

"Take it easy, Sloane. It's going to be doing that a lot tonight. What you need is another drink."

He made us both doubles while I sat clenching my hands in my lap. Mercifully, the ringing stopped by the time he came back with the drinks.

"I don't know if I can hold out much longer."

"You've got to. Last night you told me you were ready to go through hell fire for the girl and tonight you won't even exert the small effort necessary to keep from answering the phone."

"You're right," I reluctantly agreed. "It's driving me batty but I'll do it. I don't think I'd be able to if you weren't here."

"I'll stay all night if you'd like."

I hesitated for a moment. Sylvan wasn't particularly feminine in his appearance. Could he be lying to me? I doubted it. He had a womanly personality... if there is such a thing.

"I'd be grateful if you did," I said.

"Can the gratitude crap. We're in this together. It's all for one and one for all. We're riding the same horse and it's going to come in first."

"We came over on the boat together. We scrub each other's back. We're dishes in the same sink."

"We're riding the same orbit. Jesus, I hate that television talk. Bunch of overgrown Scoutmasters giving each other pep talks," he said.

The telephone rang again. And again and again. Every half hour. We made a game of counting the number of rings. By 12:30 Allison was letting it ring fifteen times before hanging up.

We killed my half bottle of rum and started on the one Sylvan had bought. After the first drink from the new bottle I knew I had had it. One more and I'd be on the floor.

Sylvan was showing the effects of the liquor too. With each drink he got more feminine. About 12:00 he had started lisping and now he was fluttering his eyelashes at me.

I suggested that we call it a night.

"O.k. Answer the phone when Allison calls at one so she won't keep us up all night and then we'll turn in," he suggested.

I waited for the one o'clock call in a mellow alcoholic haze. When the phone rang Sylvan had to nudge me to remind me that this time I was supposed to answer it.

"Sloane?" Allison's voice was tinged with anxiety. "I called you at eleven but you weren't in. I thought I'd try you again before turning in for the night."

The little liar. She didn't know that I knew that she had been calling all night. It was a pathetic attempt to save face.

"How was Amy's party?" I asked her.

"Dull. All the same people there. Are you all right? You sound high."

"Zonked is the word. I'm loaded to the gills. Did you know I have gills? Little scaly ones."

"No, dear, I haven't had the opportunity of giving you a thorough examination as yet. Remember?" Allison purred.

"We'll make an appointment then for you to give me a physical. You'll have to show me your credentials first, though."

"Will references do?" she asked insinuatingly.

"Not unless I can establish that they're from experts in the field," I said.

"Bitch!" Allison laughed tightly. "It's so good to talk to you again, Sloane. I've missed you."

"Yes... well, I've got to get off the phone now. I've got company."

"The young man I met?"

"Yes."

Silence. Then, "I'd like to talk to you. Could we have dinner tomorrow?"

"I guess so. I could see you for a little while."

"I'll pick you up at your office at six," Allison said.

"See you then." We hung up.

"Beautiful, darling, simply beautiful," Sylvan crowed.

"Did I handle it all right?"

"Superbly. Utterly, utterly divine. You were magnificent. Couldn't have done better myself and I've handled some bitches in my time, I tell you."

I made a bed for Sylvan on the couch. He refused my offer of pajamas.

"I like to sleep in the raw," he said. "It makes me feel so earthy."

Remind me never to get drunk with you again, son, I thought. I don't go for the role playing bit. We're men and women no matter if we like the same sex or not. That's the reason I can't stand transvestites. I like women and women who look like women.

I got into bed and called out a good night to Sylvan. A thoroughly masculine snore came in answer.

CHAPTER 7

Lorraine called soon after I reached the office.

"I know this is silly," she began, "but I went to bed with someone new last night and I want to know if I should feel guilty or not?"

"Of course not. I didn't expect you to sit by the telephone waiting for me to call," I said.

"I sort of figured that. Took me a while to catch on but after I hadn't heard from you in three weeks, I thought you'd found a new interest. Everything all right with you?" Lorraine asked.

"Couldn't be better."

"You're sure you're not mad?"

"Not at all. I hope she's a nice girl," I said.

"Friends?"

"Friends."

"Fine. Call me some time. We'll have a nice Platonic drink together," she said.

"Sure. No law against your calling me too." We hung up.

Nice girl that Lorraine. Breaks clean and good in a clinch.

The morning was pretty dull. I drew doodles and fantasized.

Happy came in after lunch. He called Sylvan and started bugging him about getting the prints of the pilot ready. I felt sorry for Sylvan. He had a bad hangover and Happy's screaming probably wasn't doing him much good.

Judy and I had one of our rare long conversations. We seldom had time to talk much.

Judy's conversations with me consisted mainly of anecdotes about Happy. She adored the guy but she wasn't in love with him. Her attitude was more like that of a mother toward an erring but irresistible son.

Nothing much else happened during the afternoon so when I left at six I was still full of energy.

Allison was waiting for me in the lobby. She hooked a finger through one of mine and smiled deep into my eyes. She was really laying it on.

We went to a midtown Spanish restaurant for dinner. Allison ordered cocktails for us and then got down to the project at hand.

"I've wanted to see you before this but I was too upset," she began timidly.

"That didn't seem to stand in the way of your seeing Amy Ferguson," I said.

"That was different. She's like a mother to me."

"Sweetie," I said, "if you had had Amy Ferguson for a mother you wouldn't be here now. You'd either be in a happy house or still breast feeding, with a few other little chores thrown in."

"You've got Amy all wrong. She's not like that at all!" Allison retorted.

"Come off it, Allison. I know that Amy's after you. What I want to know is, did she succeed?"

"Amy goes for me," Allison admitted. "I won't deny that. But she won't do anything about it. She just likes to have young girls around her. Chris Salem is the only one she really loves. Besides, she couldn't risk ruining her reputation by taking up with someone like me. Instead she just surrounds herself with young women at little gatherings in her apartment. Chris is always there. She understands how Amy feels now that she's growing older and losing her looks. Having young girls around makes Amy feel young. You should see those parties. It looks like Saturday night at the Harbor."

Allison's story sounded logical. Could be that I had been getting steamed up about nothing?

"How are you feeling about me now?" I asked.

"Exactly as I felt before. You know what I want, Sloane. I'm after a relationship that will last."

"How can I guarantee that? I can't marry you. Do you want me to sign a contract?"

"There's no need to be sarcastic," Allison retorted softly. "It's just a question of your deciding that I'm what you want. I won't share you with anyone else. I don't want to start an affair with you until I'm sure that you won't leave me in a few weeks. Or a few months or years, for that matter."

I let the topic drop. This was no time for me to make promises that I wasn't sure I'd keep.

After dinner we went to the gay bar in Allison's neighborhood.

We danced. It felt awfully good to hold her in my arms again. She was wearing a heavy sexy perfume in her hair that made my head feel light.

She had lost weight. I thought of how I would fatten her up after I had taken care of more pressing matters. I had to laugh at myself. I was thinking like that butch, Dinah. I was going to take care of my woman.

Allison poured it on while we were dancing. She held me close and fitted her body snugly against mine. I felt the urgency growing in me but I kept on dancing.

Lord, how I longed to have her alone. To have her get rid of all those clothes and lie naked in my arms. I wanted to press my lips to hers and drink deep of the sweetness that was Allison. It was a pleasure that was so poignant it was almost painful to think of her responding to my caresses, laughing the soft laugh of ecstasy.

The record came to the end and the jukebox was silent. We left the dance floor and went back to our table.

"It's 11:30," Allison said. "We should leave soon. Have you come to a decision? Are you staying with me tonight?"

"If you knew how much I want to, you'd know how difficult it is for me to say this," I replied. "I'm ready to accept your conditions. But I will not have you calling all the shots. You've been manipulating me ever since we met. You've been both referee and player in this game. That doesn't seem very fair to me."

I paused to light cigarettes for both of us. Allison took hers simply, without her usual coquettishness. Her face was set and serious. From what I could see, she was really listening to me and trying to understand.

"I admit that I've done a lot of manipulating in the past myself," I continued. "I thought I was one hell of a kid when women let me boss them around. But those were relationships based on sand and they washed away with the tide.

"I want our relationship to be different. I think we're both after the same things but we're going to have to work to get them. One of the things we'll both have to do is recognize that we're both adults capable of taking on responsibilities. Neither of us is going to make decisions for the other."

I got up and put my coat on. "Come on, I'll walk you home."

On the way home I told Allison that I wasn't going to stay with her that night. "I hope and pray that we'll get together soon. But that decision is up to you as much as me. Let's see if we can decide by the weekend. In the meantime, we can see each other every night if you want. At least that way I'll be sure that you're not with Amy."

I left Allison at her door and took the crosstown bus home. I was being so practical I could hardly stand myself.

The next night Allison and I went out with Sylvan. It was obvious that they liked each other. I was pleased but a little annoyed because they paid more attention to each other than to me.

The following night Allison and I went to the movies. The night after that we spent alone in our separate apartments. Partly because my finances were beginning to reach a point of utter absurdity and partly because we both needed the rest.

The next day was Friday. We arranged to meet in the Village for dinner.

* * *

Friday morning I arrived at the office bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to be met by a frantic Amy Ferguson.

She insisted that I call Happy and get him down to the office even if it meant getting him out of bed.

Happy arrived thirty minutes later. He hadn't had time to shave so he used an electric shaver while he talked to Amy. I could barely hear their conversation above the noise of the shaver but I made out enough to know that we were in trouble.

Amy had found out that the network Sales Department was pushing a situation comedy series starring Laurie Newson, Amy's chief contender for the title of suburban pied-piper. Newson was more popular on the West Coast and Amy was afraid that sponsors would grab her show if they heard about it before they were shown Amy's pilot.

That meant that Happy would have to push the show himself. I spent the morning making appointments for him with agency brass. I lined up appointments for him at all the major advertising agencies in town.

I called Sylvan for Happy and told him about the new situation. Happy would need five or more extra prints of the pilot. It meant more work for Sylvan but also more money. He promised to deliver the prints within the week.

Happy left the office. He told me that he could be reached at the Plaza barbershop for the next hour and then would be back. Happy always went to the barbershop when he had a knotty problem to figure out. After two or three hours of sun lamp treatments, massages, and facial treatments his mind was clearer. I was sure this problem would take him longer than an hour to solve.

CHAPTER 8

I left the office at six and took a cab down to the Village restaurant where I was to meet Allison.

Just inside the door of the restaurant there was a large mirror. I stopped to check myself over. It had been a rough day and I was worn out. But not where it counted. You know what I mean, I was tired on the surface but deep within me something was racing wildly. My body ached with end of the day fatigue but I wanted to run and dance and shout because soon I would be with Allison. Perhaps tonight would be the night when all that I had had to keep corked up within me could be let go. Maybe tonight I could show Allison how much I loved her.

The mirror gave back a pleasing reflection. My suit fitted well and the jersey blouse I was wearing was doing deliciously indecent things for my figure. My eyes were shining with excitement. The extra special care I had taken with my make-up was worth it. It would take a very strong light to show that I had mascara, eye-liner, eye shadow and eyebrow pencil on. The shading looked natural. I smiled my pleasure back at my reflection. I looked good and I felt good.

"I thoroughly agree. You look wonderful tonight, darling."

I blushed. Allison had been standing beside me, out of the range of the mirror, watching me admiring myself.

We found a table and ordered dinner. I told Allison about the day's happenings in the office and she told me what she had been doing. She had auditioned for a part on the Phil Singer Show.

"But that show's moving out to California next month," I said.

"I know. They auditioned me for the part a girl who has to stay in New York had."

I felt as if something were choking me from the inside. "Will you go to California with the show if you get the part?"

"I'd be a fool not to," Allison said. "It would be a great opportunity for me. There's no real reason for me to stay here. I could live as easily on the West Coast. Besides, I could probably get a lot more work out there. Most television work is being done on the Coast these days."

"I know. I... I'll miss you," I stammered.

"I was thinking about that. Sloane, please don't think I'm trying to direct your life. I thought it over and if I move to California I'd like you to come with me. You could probably get a better job there. Your experience in the Broadman Office will help you. They need experienced people on the production end. Besides, what you really want to do is write and you can do that out there as well as here."

"It's an idea. I'll think it over."

"No need to come to a decision now. I don't even know if I've got the part yet," Allison said.

We finished dinner and walked the three blocks to the Harbor to have our liqueur there.

It was still early enough so the place wasn't impossibly crowded but the Friday night crowd was beginning to arrive. We took the last available table. In another hour there would be women standing five deep at the bar.

We drank our liqueurs and then ordered stronger drinks. It wasn't long before we signalled the waiter for a third round. We were drinking more heavily than usual. Also, conversation was difficult for both of us. Every topic seemed to fall flat and there were many long heavy silences.

I guess the same thing was on both our minds. It was Friday night... D Day. Someone had to take the lead but neither of us was willing to do it because we had set up an impossible situation... whoever spoke first could be accused of dictating to the other. It was ridiculous but we were both too shy to do anything about it.

We didn't dance. The tension between us was so strong that I don't think either of us could have stood the close contact. I looked at Allison sitting across the table from me and I ached to hold her in my arms but I just went on making foolish conversation.

By the time we were on our fifth round of drinks the place was so crowded it looked like bargain day for lesbians: two for $1.98... slight manufacturer's defects that won't affect their serviceability.

The noise was deafening. The jukebox was blaring and everybody was trying to shout above it. Cigarette smoke hung like a cloud in the stale air.

"I can't breathe with all this smoke. Let's get out of here," Allison said.

We paid the check and left. Outside the air was heavy with the poignant sweetness of Spring. It was the sort of night when the lights and sounds of the city seem somehow sad, like a lover who sighs in the midst of his pleasure because he knows it can't last.

Allison breathed deeply. "It's a beautiful night."

"Yes," I said. "I wish we were out in the country though. On nights like this in the Spring you can smell the earth."

"Any place in particular you'd like to be?" she asked, not looking at me.

"Yes. I'd like to be up in the Catskills. Around Woodstock. It's beautiful up there. Particularly at this time of the year."

"Let's go."

"Huh?" I inquired brilliantly.

"We could borrow my room-mate's car. She doesn't have another flight until Tuesday and she won't be using it. I'm sure she'd lend it to us."

"It would be silly to just drive up there and come back," I protested. "It's a three hour drive."

"We could stay at a motel over night... or for the whole week-end, if you'd like," Allison said.

I looked at Allison and in her eyes was the question and the answer. Desire sprang up in me so strong I doubted that I would be able to wait until we reached Woodstock.

"Call your room-mate," I said. My voice had suddenly become lower and husky.

Allison called her room-mate from a drugstore phone booth. It was all right, we could have the car.

We took the subway uptown to save money. I waited on the steps outside her house while Allison went in and got the car keys... I thought it best not to meet her room-mate that night.

The car was a beat-up old red Plymouth convertible. It had seen better days but it still had dash. It was the sort of car a college kid would have jazzed up with a raccoon tail fastened to the antenna.

Allison handed me the keys. I was to drive. She handled it as she had indicated who was to lead when we danced.

I drove through the Lincoln Tunnel to New Jersey and past the sleeping towns where endless neon signs advertised the joys of conspicuous consumption.

There wasn't much traffic on the Thruway. We rode through the rolling countryside without talking. The radio was tuned in on WQXR and the music of Debussy played a soft accompaniment to the lonely hissing of the tires.

I turned off the Thruway at Kingston. There was about ten miles of unlighted road to Woodstock. Black trees hovered protectively over us, shadowy leaves sifted against each other in the night wind.

As we drove up the hill toward Woodstock, the lights of the Red Lion Inn came in view.

"What about staying there?" I asked. "I've stayed at the Red Lion before and they've got nice clean rooms for not too much money."

"Fine," Allison said.

I parked the car in the parking lot between the restaurant and the Inn. I shut off the motor, the radio, and the lights. The sudden silence was startling.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone around," Allison said. "I wonder if everybody's asleep already?"

"No. I know the proprietress. She never goes to bed before dawn. She's quite a woman. I think you'll like her. She's a wonderfully alive, warm Rumanian. I think she's a little bit mad but delightful."

"Aren't all Rumanians? Mad, I mean," Allison asked.

"You're thinking of Hungarians."

We got out of the car and stumbled in the dark to the back door of the restaurant. It was unlocked so we walked in to the bar.

Theresa Golovin was sitting on a stool at the bar listening to flamenco music from the jukebox. She kept the jukebox stocked with the kind of records she liked and to hell with the customers if they didn't like it.

I introduced Allison to Theresa. Theresa asked us to wait until the record was over and then she'd show us to our rooms.

When the record was finished, Theresa took us to the Inn.

"I've got a big room available. Big enough for both of you. No need to pay for two rooms. Eh?"

I don't know if Theresa was being politic or if she really suggested a double room to save us money. Anyway, we agreed that it would be silly to pay for two rooms and took the big one.

I paid Theresa for two night's rent. She left us and went back to the bar.

Neither of us had any luggage to unpack. That was one of the little details we had overlooked. Another one was not bringing a bottle. The situation demanded—no, screamed for—liquor.

"I'd like a drink. How about you?" I asked.

"Yes, I'd like one but I'd like to rest for a moment before going down to the bar," Allison replied.

"Suppose I ask Theresa if she'll sell us a bottle and we can drink it up here? It's illegal but I think she'll do it."

"Good idea," Allison agreed. "I'd like cognac. Is that all right with you?"

"Fine. Anything with it?"

"No, I like it straight. Hurry back, darling." Allison flopped down on the bed and assumed an exaggeratedly sexy pose. Then she smiled at me lazily, mocking my self-conscious formality.

I bent over her and kissed her lightly on the tip of her nose, then hurried out.

I asked Theresa if she would sell me the cognac.

"Why not?" she replied, as if she couldn't lose her liquor license by doing it.

She got the bottle out from behind the bar and wrapped it up with two snifters in a piece of newspaper. As she was handing it to me, she said, "Your friend is very pretty."

I didn't know what to say. I couldn't thank her for the compliment to my taste as a man would have done.

"Those pretty ones, they can be very dangerous," Theresa continued. "They have too many admirers. They don't appreciate the ones who love them. Sometimes it is better to love someone who is not so beautiful."

She came close to me and looked at me intently. "You are very attractive also. But you have true feelings. I know that. You are not one of those who uses her beauty to conquer and destroy. I was never beautiful. Not even when I was young. But I have known love. Yes, there were men who looked at me and found me beautiful because there was beauty in them. Forgive me, I talk too much. Go now and enjoy the brandy."

I went all right. Boy, was I embarrassed. Theresa hadn't said anything that definitely stated she knew what the score was but a microcephalic idiot would have gotten the drift behind her words.

Allison appeared to be asleep when I got back to the room. She was lying on her back, her arms flung out carelessly. I tip-toed into the bathroom to wash the glasses. When I came back she was lying in the same position but her eyes were open.

"Did you get the cognac?"

"Yes. Hennessey. Is that all right?" I replied.

"Fine. Pour me a stiff one, will you."

I poured about three fingers of cognac into each of our glasses and handed one of them to Allison. I sat down on the bed beside her. We clicked glasses in a mute toast.

Allison took a large drink and then smiled. "What does one say on an occasion like this? 'Happy days?' 'Skol?' 'Here's mud in your eye?' "

"I guess that's what's wrong with both of us. We're pushing it too hard," I said.

"Well, it does seem absurdly like a honeymoon. Anyway, I feel as nervous as a bride."

I giggled self-consciously and said, "Me too. We can't both be brides. We'd cancel each other out."

"That seems to be what we're doing." Allison moved over on the bed until her body was against my hip. She took my hand in hers. I clutched the glass with my other hand so tightly it's a wonder it didn't shatter.

"Did you know that Havelock Ellis didn't consummate his marriage until two weeks after the ceremony?" I babbled. "He gave his wife time to lose her nervousness. Each night he would sleep beside her and touch her in an increasingly intimate way until she was ready to accept him without timidity. Did you know that?" I asked again, my voice high and tight.

"Three cheers for the noble Mr. Ellis." Allison smiled mischievously and took another long pull on her drink. "If I had been Mrs. Ellis, I probably would have been so wrought up by the time he got around to it that I would have attacked him myself."

"Sounds delightful. If I had been Mr. Ellis, that's precisely the way I would have worked it."

"Methinks you're trying to tell me something. I've got it. You want me to rape you."

"Promises... all I ever get is promises." Allison's kidding was beginning to relax me.

"Oh? Tell me, what do I get for my trouble if I do force myself to rape you?" she asked.

"Everything you deserve, darling. Everything you deserve."

Allison put her hands on my shoulders and drew herself up to a sitting position. She placed her palms on both sides of my face. Slowly she brought her face closer to mine, her eyelids gradually lowering. "Did I ever tell you that you're a bitch, Sloane darling? A delightful, intoxicating bitch."

Our lips met. Allison's mouth was like all the sweetness and softness in the world. I moved deeper and deeper into the yielding warmth of her mouth with a thirst that couldn't be slaked. She moved her mouth against mine softly. Then the tip of her tongue was probing.

I embraced her tightly, molding her body to mine and pushed her down on the bed.

I clasped her to me convulsively and pushed my tongue between her parted lips.

I could hardly breathe. I didn't want to. I was weak with need. Lost in the fluid sweetness of Allison.

Abruptly, she released me and pulled her mouth away from mine. "I hate to inject a prosaic note at this point but, since we don't have any other clothes to wear, I think we ought to be careful of them," she said.

"Oh, yeah, I guess so."

We got up. I went over to Allison to help her but she signalled me away. I undressed without looking at her.

When I had all my clothes off, I looked up. Allison was standing in the classic pose of a woman proud of her body, her legs parted and her head thrown back. Her high pointed breasts swelled out toward me magnificently from the warm golden glow of her body. The dim light from the bedside lamp washed over her smooth taut skin, creating provocative shadows between her breasts and in the dimpled indentations of her lower body.

She stood that way for a moment, looking at me through half-closed eyes. Then she moved with the grace of a dancer to the lamp. She shut it off and crossed quickly to the window. She drew up the blind.

Blue moonlight laved her body. She looked cold and remote as a statue. I looked at her as she stood at the window, her back to me, her arms spread out in an attitude of supplication toward the moon. It was a ridiculous pose, overdone to the point of caricature. Knowing Allison, I knew that she was most likely smiling at her own melodramatic gesture.

But I wasn't smiling. My body was still warm from where she had so recently lain against it and my mouth was lonely for hers.

I went over to the window and pressed my body against hers. The soft flesh of her back pressed intimately to me. I brought my arms around her and ran one finger over her parted lips. Then I trailed my hands down over her. Back and forth, around and around, I moved my hands. I cupped her firm breasts in my palms and gently kneaded the velvet tips. Then I pressed my hands flat against her and moved them downward. I tensed my hands and ran just my fingertips lightly over the trembling flesh of her thighs. Allison moaned.

She turned in my arms and embraced me passionately. I continued to trail my fingertips all over her body. Allison was trembling violently. She was half embracing me and half holding onto me for support.

"Please, please, baby. Please, please, please," she murmured.

I moved toward the bed, supporting Allison's limp body with one arm. I laid her down on the bed.

She lay there with her eyes closed, her mouth parted and gasping for breath. I stood beside the bed, tracing the outlines of her body with my fingertips. Her legs separated. I moved my hand downward.

"Sloane, Sloane, I love you."

Our lips met and Allison bit hungrily against my mouth. Her body was moving in an ecstatic rhythm against mine. Tensed up and pushing greedily into me and my body bearing down against her in the same increasing tempo.

I wanted to become part of her. Make her part of me. To devour her. To feed deeply on the sweetness that was Allison.

"Baby, oh, oh, baby," I gasped.

"Give me your mouth. Sloane, give it to me!" Allison breathed.

I brought my mouth down on hers and again explored the hot wetness of it. It was too much for me. With a violent effort, I pulled my mouth from hers and drew it down to her breasts. I kissed first one then the other.

Then my mouth was everywhere. Lips, tongue, hot flesh and the liquid fire of love.

* * *

The next morning we had breakfast with Theresa, and then I drove Allison around the lovely countryside. She was enchanted by the old Dutch and German names of the surrounding towns. We had lunch in a replica of a Rhine Valley chateau and then went hiking along an old Indian trail. We weren't dressed for hiking so it wasn't long before we gave it up and got back in the car again.

I followed a twisting dirt road to the crest of a mountain and parked the car on a turn-off. Below us the countryside spread out almost too beautiful to be real.

I slid over on the seat and put my arm around Allison.

"Suppose someone sees us?" she asked.

"We would hear a car coming before it could see us. don't worry." I gathered her to me and kissed her. Lightly at first and then harder. But our mouths were sore from the passion of the night before. We kissed each other gently, carefully solicitous while we still had composure enough to be.

I slid my hands inside her coat and caressed her breasts. "Not here, Sloane. We can't do anything here," Allison said.

"What makes you think I intend to do anything?" I teased. "You're taking an awful lot for granted, young lady."

"Don't you think I have a right to after last night?"

"Not at all. How do you know that I'm not a female Don Juan? That now that I've had you I've not lost interest?"

"I doubt that," Allison replied. "From what I can see 'increase of appetite has grown from what it fed upon'."

She was right. Lord, she was right. Just touching her through all that clothing was sending me straight out of my mind.

I pulled myself away and started up the car. I drove down the mountain as fast as I could without cracking us up.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" Allison asked.

"Back to the Inn. I want to freshen up before dinner," I replied. "I thought we could have a drink in our room."

"You must want that drink an awful lot from the way you're speeding."

"Dammit, Allison, don't make it any harder for me. I want you, baby. I can't wait until tonight."

"I want you too. Hurry, darling, please."

We parked the car and rushed up to our room. Allison preceded me. I locked the door while she drew the window blind down.

We went to each other like being possessed. Our carefully attended to clothing was ripped off in a mad excess of haste.

Then Allison was in my arms again and I was devouring her lovely body. My mouth was all over her and the wonder of her was on me, through me, in me, part of me.

Afterward, we lay side by side in the silent stillness of satiation.

After a little while Allison glided smoothly over on the bed until she was lying over me. She did things with her hands and lips. Things that I had done to her. The insidious flame started to burn again in me.

"No. Don't. You don't have to. I'm all right," I said.

Allison smiled softly and said, "I know. It was wonderful.”

"You must want that drink an awful lot.”

She was gentle. So gentle that desire was an aching thing within me. It was as if she were teasing the longing in me to grow. My passion reached out to her tenderly caressing mouth and hands.

Then Allison's need matched my own. She became almost fierce in her lovemaking. Faster and faster she coaxed the apex of my passion out of me. Then I was hers and she was mine, together in the ultimate intimacy.

CHAPTER 9

Monday came as Mondays do... don't ask me why. More people commit suicide in the United States on Monday than on any other day of the week. No wonder. Not that I felt depressed or anything. It was just that it was wrong for me to have to go into the office that day. It was absurd, ridiculous that I should be pretending to give a damn about anything else besides Allison Millay.

I barely made it on time. We didn't leave Woodstock until early Monday morning and arrived in the city only twenty minutes before I was due at the office. Allison kept the car engine running while I dashed up to my apartment and changed clothes. I ran down to the car again still buttoning my blouse. Allison drove me to the office.

Leaving Allison was hard enough but convention had to stick its warty nose into it. After a weekend like we had had it was a hell of a leave-taking. She pulled the car up to the curb and turned to me to say good-bye. That's all we could do... say inadequate things. I couldn't kiss her or hug her or do anything. Shaking hands would have been just too much.

Happy was out most of the day showing the Amy Ferguson pilot to the ad agencies. He came back to the office late in the afternoon. He didn't look too happy.

In the ensuing weeks Happy showed the pilot at least thirty times. The reports that came in later were all pretty much the same. The pilot was a great job. Nice acting, funny script, good story line, well executed piece of photography but...That's what they all said, but. But our product appeals to teen-agers and they aren't interested in Amy Ferguson. But we need a program that will attract viewers in the small towns and the pilot was too cosmopolitan in its outlook. But it was too sophisticated for the average viewer. That was the most frequent criticism. I didn't get it. To me the pilot was about as sophisticated as Little Women. I learned something from that experience. The powers that be in the television industry made my cynicism about the American public seem like idealism. They thought that anything on a higher level than Lassie was for Sunday afternoon programming only.

That night I went to Allison's apartment for dinner. Her room-mate, Ruth Gardner, was there. She had a date for dinner but had enough time to have a drink with us. That was enough. It put my mind at ease. Ruth Gardner was as gay as Helen of Troy. She had no idea about Allison. It wasn't the sort of thing she would think about. Ruth was strictly a man's woman.

Realizing that she wasn't homosexual, hence not having an affair with Allison, would have been enough to make me like her. But, in addition, I was immediately impressed by Ruth's mind. She wasn't brilliant, just pleasantly intelligent. The impressive thing was her obvious fairmindedness. Most people let prejudices overwhelm them to the point where they close their minds. Ruth insisted on maintaining question marks. She had preferences but she was willing to explore them and new things and ideas that might possibly change her point of view. A rare quality.

The two girls had gotten together through lucky accident. Ruth had just found the apartment when Allison arrived in New York. The apartment was big enough for two people and Ruth wanted a room-mate to help cut down on expenses. She advertised in the newspaper and Allison had responded to the ad. It was a risk for both of them. One never knows what she'll meet through a newspaper ad. They would have been satisfied to just be room-mates with someone who would be neat and mind her own business. As it turned out, they had many interests in common and quickly became real friends. Allison gave Ruth advice about her somewhat muddled relationships with her boyfriends and Ruth advised Allison about finding acting jobs in New York.

Allison had made a small compromise. She invented boyfriends to tell Ruth about so that the other girl wouldn't become suspicious. After meeting Ruth I wondered if this had been necessary. I felt that Ruth was the sort of woman who wouldn't give a damn if someone wanted to go to bed with chimpanzees, as long as they didn't try to involve her in it. I didn't blame Allison for not taking her into her confidence about being gay. It's a delicate matter and a girl can get herself into a lot of trouble' if she's not discreet. But I wasn't overly worried about making slips in front of Ruth.

After Ruth left for her date, Allison and I had dinner. It was a good meal. Allison could cook. The more I knew her, the more talents I was finding out about.

We took our coffee into the living room. I sat down on the couch and Allison sat on my lap. It was the sort of position that would look ridiculous to an observer. Grown people just don't sit on each other's laps. 'But it seemed perfectly all right because we were alone and it was just the sort of faintly ludicrous thing that helps to break down formality. After establishing an intense relationship with someone it was always difficult for me to pick up the pieces after an interruption. Allison took care of that. By sitting on my lap she made it possible for me to seduce her all over again, but delicately.

I wrapped my arms around her and she laid her cheek against mine.

We sat in contented silence for some moments. I felt warmer and more at peace with myself than I had in years.

"The week-end was very important to me, Allison. I want you to know that. I loved you before we went to bed. That's what made our physical closeness so much the more wonderful. I've had good sex before, lots of it. But never before this have I been left with such a feeling of inner satisfaction. It's as if my soul had been satisfied along with my body."

"I know. I feel the same way," she replied.

"Love me?"

"Yes. Oh God, yes."

"Keep telling me that. Please, I know it's ridiculous. I should be content to just know it but I want to keep hearing you say it."

In answer she kissed me. The pressure of her lips at first made them sting but as I started to respond the pain went away. Her lips were so soft. Her mouth a spring of goodness from which I drank peace.

It was a long kiss. Keeping our lips still locked together I shifted our positions so that Allison was lying on her back on the couch.

I could feel her firm breasts pressing up against me. The tension was mounting in me. The room seemed to have become unaccountably warmer.

I pulled my head up and looked at Allison. She lay beneath me with her eyes closed, her mouth slightly parted. God, she was beautiful. The soft lamplight brought out the gold highlights in her hair. Her complexion was flawless. I noticed that one eyebrow was different from the other. One was curved more. She had used eyebrow pencil to give the effect of equal arches but viewed this close I could see the difference. This little blemish to her perfection pleased me. As did her attempt to cover it up for my sake.

I kissed the eyebrow with the pencil on it. Then I kissed her smooth forehead and the corners of her mouth and the tip of her nose. I kissed her ear and then caught the lobes between my teeth and bit them lightly. Allison gasped.

My hands were on her breasts. I cupped them in my palms then placed just the flat on my palms against the tips and caressed them with a circular motion.

Allison grasped my hand and pulled it away.

"What did you do that for?" I asked.

"I couldn't take much more," she replied. "I was getting too aroused."

"That, my dear child, was the object."

Allison pushed gently against my shoulders. She sat up and put her arm around my shoulders.

"I couldn't make love to you here. I'd be too afraid that Ruth would come in on us."

"O.k., I see your point. We'll go to my apartment."

"I don't think that would be wise. It would look odd. Ruth might get suspicious if I spent the night at your place."

"Oh great. I can just see what's going to be happening from now on. I'll be lucky if you spend more than one night a week with me."

"What can I do?" Allison asked. "I'll stay with you whenever Ruth's out on a flight but when she's here I've got to sleep home most of the time."

"Uh uh, I don't go for it. You asked for a run of the play contract and that means nightly performances plus matinees once or twice a week. I'll report you to Equity."

"Do I get star billing?"

"Sure, but you know what happens if you ever goof it. Like in the movies, your understudy will play the part for you one night and she'll do such a good job that you'll have to switch places with her."

"And just who is my understudy?"

"My independence," I said. "I'm going to tell you something that I've never confessed to anyone before. Most of the time I'm so damned lonely that I do one of two things. Either I try to lose myself with anyone who is available for the evening or I make a companion of my loneliness. I've reached the point where I've almost externalized it. It's something that I have to deal with, something that walks beside me and demands my attention as a person would. Does that make any sense to you?"

"Yes, I think I know what you mean."

"Because of what I've told you, I've made a point of never getting too involved with any one person. I did that once and I found out that the desire to be with someone who isn't there isn't like the other kind of loneliness. It's a need that can be satisfied only one way. By the presence of the woman I love," I continued. "Without her beside me I'm lost. No other woman can really distract me from my loneliness.

"I hadn't planned on falling in love with you. Originally I just wanted to get you into bed. That's changed. I am in love with you now, Allison. Very deeply in love. For that reason I'm going to insist that we see each other very frequently. I suppose the ideal arrangement for me would be to get married. That way I'd be assured of companionship. But I am in love with a woman. I want the nearest approach to marriage that we can have. I want to live with you, Allison."

She was silent for a few minutes. Then she said in a flat voice, "You know that I love you. That there is no one who means as much to me as you do." She stopped speaking and stared at the wall, a set expression on her face.

"But you won't live with me?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what's the problem?" I asked.

"I heard from the casting director on the Phil Singer Show today. They want me for the part. That means I'll have to move to California if I take it."

"Did you tell him you'll take the part?"

"I told him that I'd let him know by the end of the week," Allison said. "They want me to sign the contracts Monday. It's a good contract. I'd be making $500 a week with provisions for residuals. Also, the contract would be with the show and not with the network so I would be free to take other jobs with other stations if I could get them. The only thing wrong is that they're insisting on a three year contract."

"What if you get an offer for a job in New York during that three year period?"

"There's not much chance of that. Most television will be coming from the Coast. TV's on its way out on the East Coast except for the small independent stations. I'm not ready to go on the stage yet. I had planned to stay in television for a least a couple of years longer before trying the legitimate stage anyway.

"There's another thing. Crystal soap asked me to do spot commercials for them. They wanted me to fly out to Hollywood to film the commercials there. If I were more available, chances are I'd get a lot of work doing spot commercials for them. They do a lot of network advertising. It's just possible that they might select me to represent their product. All kinds of things could come from that. Look what happened to Betty Furness. Since she's been doing the commercials for Westinghouse everybody knows her. She can practically write her own ticket. One of the men at the agency told me that Crystal soap is considering using a similar approach. They're looking for a girl and he thought I might be the one they'd pick."

"You'd be a fool not to go," I said.

"This is beginning to sound like a soap opera," Allison said. "You know, the kind that 'poses the problem: Can a girl with a career have a home?' Sloane, I hadn't counted on falling in love either. But I have. I don't want to lose you."

"I don't want to lose you either."

"Then you'll come to the Coast with me?"

"And have a Hollywood marriage? No, you'd leave me for some star. It always happens. Success would go to your head and I'd begin to look like small potatoes."

"You're joking."

"Yes, I'm joking," I said. "But there is some truth behind it. In any event, it's a big move. Let me think it over. I'll come to a decision soon. In the meantime, if you love me, you'll sign those contracts with the Phil Singer Show quickly, before they have a chance to change their minds. It's too good an opportunity to pass up."

"What's with the nauseating burst of altruism? I don't see you as the self-sacrificing type," Allison said.

"You're right. I'm not. There's more to it though. Allison, remember that night at Happy's place in the country? The night Marv raped you?"

"You don't think I could have forgotten that, do you?" she asked.

"The question was rhetorical. The point is that I think that what happened was socio-economic in origin. I'm not discounting the fact that we were dealing with a bunch of drunks. Perverted ones at that. However, there are other points to be considered."

"What do you mean?" Allison asked.

"Simply, that if you and I had had more prestige in those men's eyes they wouldn't have dared to do what they did. No matter how drunk they got they'd never try to pull something like that with an Amy Ferguson.

"I think we both agree that their standards and values are pretty smelly," I continued, "but so's almost everything in this world. We've got two choices. Either we go off into some sort of intellectual, spiritual or emotional limbo where we don't have to deal with the world around us or we come to terms with it. Since neither of us are revolutionaries, we have to apply the old principle... if you can't lick them, join them. Beat them at their own game."

"That's an awfully pessimistic way of looking at things."

"Not really. We're both interested in the entertainment industry. You as an actress and me as a writer. Therefore we've got to be aware of the attitudes of society. Otherwise, they won't buy what we've got to sell. People who cater to the public can help change things they don't like. But they do it gradually. Surreptitiously almost. The public will accept gradual evolution but they tar and feather revolutionists."

"Haven't you gotten away from your main point?" Allison asked.

"Yes, guess I have. Anyway, the point is that I know that I'll never be really happy until I have the kind of security and freedom that comes with money and fame. This is supposed to be a democracy but I've seen too much to swallow it whole. The little guy gets pushed around plenty in this here United States. That's o.k. if it doesn't bother him but it drives me wild. I think you're very much like me in that way.

"Like most things, this comes down to a very simple point. Namely, what I want out of life is happiness and I can't be happy unless you are too. Hence, I want you to do what you must do in order to get ahead. I want you to be in a position where you'll never have to go through anything remotely resembling that night with Marv Banner again."

Allison nodded agreement and got up from the couch. She went out to the kitchen and made more coffee. She came back with it and sat down again.

"I don't see why you can't come to California, though. I'm interested in our mutual happiness too. It appears to me that we could further our careers out there and still have a home together," she said.

"I haven't said that I won't go. I just want some time to think it over. In the meantime, you go ahead and sign those contracts. I mean it, Allison, you'd go down in my estimation if you passed up an opportunity like this because of me."

"But I don't see what there could possibly be to make you want to stay here."

"There are some things I don't want to put into words now. Just accept that I have a lot of thinking to do, will you? Thinking that I'll have to do alone."

"Are you trying to say that you don't want to see me?" she asked.

"Of course not. I’ll see you any time when you can make it. Not here though. I'm not going to put up with these artificial restrictions. I want you to come to my apartment where we can be alone. There are other things that I can't put into words. Things that can only be expressed when you're in my arms."

"Ruth is leaving on a flight tomorrow. She won't be back till the end of the week."

"You'll stay with me the whole time?"

'Try and get rid of me. Don't worry, I'll make arrangements to be with you when Ruth's in town also. I'll think of something to tell her," Allison said.

* * *

I left shortly after that. It sounds crazy I know but I felt marvelous. The majority of the conversation had been about depressing matters but I felt good because I thought that I had made Allison see a side of me she hadn't known before. Or maybe I felt good because for a change I had stopped clowning around someplace besides in bed. Maybe it made me feel good that I had shown Allison and myself that I wasn't always completely selfish. I don't know what it was. Anyway, I felt wonderful.

There was a note in my mailbox. It was from Sylvan, asking me to call him. I did.

"Damn!" he exclaimed when he heard my voice. "Where the bloody hell have you been? I was worried when you didn't call me all weekend. I tried to reach you but there was no answer."

"Bubbala, I didn't know you cared," I answered.

"Shove it. I looked for you everywhere. I asked around at the Harbor and they said you hadn't been in since Friday night. Then I went around to every gay bar in town. I even called the morgue."

"A logical progression."

"Come off it. You're all right? You didn't get into an accident or anything?" Sylvan asked.

"Hardly. I was out of town for the weekend."

"Oh? Tell papa all about it. You had a date with Allison Friday, didn't you?"

"That's right. We had dinner and then went to the Harbor. We decided to go to Woodstock that night so off we went."

"And you stayed the whole weekend?”

"Right."

"You finally made it with Allison?"

"Right again."

"Hats in the air! Whoopee! Huzzah and similar expressions in the same vein! Give me all the gory details, darling. I want to know simply everything."

"I will not. There are some things that a lady just does not discuss."

"Come on. It's just between us girls," Sylvan said.

"A provocative premise. However, I really don't think it's right for me to discuss it."

"You're dying to and you know it."

"You're incorrigible," I laughed. "O.k., you're right and you know it. I'd love to be able to tell somebody about it."

"Fine. Now, first of all, was she any good in bed?"

"Divine."

"Splendid. Now tell me who did what to whom."

"Sylvan!"

"Don't fight me, love. That prude bit just isn't becoming to you."

"Your round. I guess you'd call it about fifty-fifty. I took the lead at first but Allison was in there pitching before the weekend was over."

"You don't know how much I envy you. It sounds as if it was simply divine," Sylvan said.

"Oh? I didn't know you went for it. In that case, I'll introduce you to some nice girls I know."

"Girls! Don't be obscene."

"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. I should have known better."

"Just keep it in mind, dearie. I won't have you defaming my character that way. I'm a pure little boy's boy all the way. Didn't you know that fornication is against the law in this state?"

"And they're giving out prizes for pederasty?"

"I'll ignore that one. You're just jealous because I'm prettier than you are. I have this trouble all the time. No one loves me for myself alone but for my yellow hair," he said.

"You've dyed it!"

"Don't be an ass, my sweet. I wish I could but I'd never get another job. Besides, Mike likes my hair this way."

"Who's Mike?" I asked.

"A divine bit of seafood I picked up this weekend."

"Seafood?"

"A sailor. Really, Sloane, happiness had made you positively obtuse. Mike's on shore leave for a week and he's staying with me."

"And you're talking this way in front of him?"

"Oh, he can't hear me. He's passed out in the bedroom.”

"I thought you'd been drinking." Sylvan never sounded that swishy unless he was soused.

"I'm still coherent and that's all that matters. Now tell me more. When are you and Allison going to get a place together?"

I told him about the California deal. I said that I had urged Allison to take the job.

"Happy martyr's day! Do you know what you're doing in sending her out to Hollywood where the deer and degenerates play? You better assert squatter's rights and go with her if you don't want to have her turn into one of those ghastly Hollywood queer-nymphomaniacs," he said.

"I haven't made up my mind yet about going."

"What's the problem?"

"Well, partly that Allison has a tendency to try to manipulate and direct me. I don't want her to think I'll just follow her around like a puppy wherever she goes."

"Not good enough. I don't believe that's the real reason for your not going."

"There are a few other things that I'd rather not go into," I said.

"I've got it," Sylvan said. "You're afraid that if Allison finds out that she has too much power over you she'll drop you like Marilyn did. That's it, isn't it?"

"Go get another drink. You're becoming revoltingly sober."

"I'm right, I'm right!" he crowed.

"O.K., so you're right. Anyway, let's meet for lunch sometime this week. We'll discuss it then."

"Love to. I'd like to see Allison again too."

"I've got an idea. Why don't you and Mike come here for dinner Wednesday night?"

"Splendid. Just don't serve oysters, please."

"Why? Mike too much for you?"

"Darling, I'm down to a shadow of my former self," Sylvan said delightedly. "I don't think I'd be able to survive if he stayed for more than a week."

Just then I could hear a gruff voice calling Sylvan in the background. "Be with you in a moment," Sylvan called back.

"I'll let you go now," I said. "Mustn't keep your seafood waiting. It might spoil."

"Honey, you don't know the half of it. He's terribly impatient. Does perfectly terrible things to me if I'm late. I love it," he whispered. "Oh, here he comes now. Don't get nasty, love, I was going to go to you in a minute. Well, Sloane, I'll... Mike, Mike, what are you doing? Mike, I'm on the phone. I'm talking to a girl! Mike, at least let me hang up. Oh-h-h, Mike!" Sylvan's voice had changed to a breathless soprano. "Sloane, we'll see you Wednesday at seven."

"Right. Take good care of your sailor now."

"I have no choice. Mike, please! The blinds are up!"

CHAPTER 10

Wednesday night Sylvan brought his friend to my apartment for dinner. Sylvan was wearing a rust coloured suede smoking jacket with pastel trousers. He had a paisley ascot around his neck. I learned something new about Sylvan. He didn't have to be drunk to become feminine. Apparently the company of another man brought out the swish in him.

Mike was a sailor. With a vengeance he was a sailor. Big and beefy with a voice that sounded like a fog bell. He was handsome in a prehistoric sort of way.

There are only two types who look good in Navy blues and Mike was one of them. Slim, slight men look kind of sexy in the tight pants. Guys like Mike look good because the skinlike outfit shows off every muscle and emphasizes their masculinity.

As a conversationalist he was a good tennis player. Mike laughed a lot. At things that were funny and even at some things that weren't. He had a big deep laugh that made the muscles on his shoulders quiver.

We asked him questions about shipboard life to which he responded in monosyllables. Sylvan supplied the details for us. I don't know when he found out anything about Mike unless the guy became talkative in the most inappropriate moments. He sure as hell didn't talk much when he was vertical.

Sylvan danced attendance on Mike as if the sailor were a delicate woman who couldn't do anything for herself. He brought him his drinks, even mixed them and removed the swizzle stick before giving them to Mike. Mike looked a little embarrassed when Sylvan curled up on the floor at his feet and stared up at him with adoring eyes.

I felt sorry for Sylvan. He deserved better than this. Sylvan had a good mind, lots of personality and a lot to offer someone. Mike just wasn't capable of appreciating him.

I've heard the same story from many gay boys. They start out looking for beauty and love and after a while they become so bitter that the only thing they're interested in is sex. It's the loneliest state imaginable. There are thousands of queens all over the world who have given up all hope of companionship. The only thing they're interested in is the physical attractiveness of their lovers.

Mike was agreeable enough though hardly stimulating. We had a few rounds of drinks and then settled down to dinner. Allison had spent the afternoon in my apartment preparing the meal. Luckily, she had prepared enough spaghetti for eight people. Mike ate four platefuls.

After dinner we went back into the living room. I put some records on the phonograph and brought out the bottle of Drambuie I had picked up on the way home.

Mike said he didn't care for any liqueur. He would stick to Scotch. Allison, Sylvan and I split the bottle among us. It's potent stuff. By the time the bottle was empty we were all feeling no pain whatsoever.

Mike was sitting in an armchair with Sylvan curled up at his feet. Sylvan kept caressing Mike's thighs and blowing kisses up at him. Since they were being so uninhibited, Allison and followed suit. We sat on the couch with our arms about each other. It was a nice relaxed evening.

For a while it was. Up until the time Mike finished the Scotch. We all felt like having another drink by then but I had no more booze in the house. I did have a half a case of beer in the refrigerator and we all decided to switch to that. Mike offered to help me get the beer and glasses.

We went out to the kitchen. The kitchen was located next to the living room. An open archway connected the two rooms. From the living room one could see the stove but the refrigerator and sink were at the opposite end of the room, shielded from view by a folding screen.

Mike got the cans of beer out of the refrigerator while I took the glasses down from the cupboard. I was opening the cans on the sink drain board when Mike came up behind me and put his arms around me.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I asked him, trying to make my voice as icy as possible.

"Come on, baby, they can't see us in here. How's about a kiss."

"No. I..." Mike shut me up by pulling me to him and kissing me. His mouth was wet and sloppy. I thought I was going to choke.

I pushed him away. "Look, Mike, let's just bring the beer out to Sylvan and Allison. We'll just forget that this ever happened. Don't worry, I won't tell Sylvan."

"Aah, who cares what that queer thinks?"

"Queer? What do you think that makes you?"

"I ain't no fruit," Mike protested. "Just 'cause I go for a little of it once in a while don't make me no pansy. It ain't for me. I go for women. This here guy Sylvan, he come up to me one night in a bar. I was just in there for a drink. I didn't know it was a queer joint."

"You didn't have to go with him," I said.

"It was late at night. I didn't have no dough. He told me I could stay at his place. So I went with him. Like I told you, I like to have it that way sometimes. But that don't make me no queer. This guy Sylvan, he'd be all right. He's got a nice soft body, like a woman, ya know? But he's always trying to kiss me and all that. I don't go for that."

"I don't want to hear about it! You're not fit for someone like Sylvan to walk on and you have the nerve to talk about him that way!"

"O.k., baby. I didn't want to do no talking anyway." With that he grabbed me again and brought his mouth down toward mine. I twisted my head violently away from him.

"You're forgetting that I'm one of those 'queers' you're contemptuous of!"

"You ain't no queer," Mike said. "Trouble with you is at you've never had a good man. Just relax and I'll show you what you've been missing. I've known lots of dykes. After they been with me they didn't want no more girls." The same old line. I'd heard that one all my life. I suppose it's true in a few cases but it wasn't in mine. Why do all men think that all a woman needs is a good roll in the hay and she'll be cured of everything from homosexuality to scurvy?

Mike tightened his hold on me. He had one massive arm around my waist. It was like steel. I couldn't break his grip.

He kissed me hard. He hadn't shaved closely and the bristles burned my face. I tried to pull my mouth away but he was holding me too tightly. I couldn't move an inch.

He was plastered right up against me, his body flush with mine. Mike was at least a head taller than I but I'm long-legged. That made it convenient for him.

He caressed me with his free hand. I guess he thought it was a caress but it felt more like punishment to me.

Against my will I was getting aroused. It wasn't just that he was touching me. Mike was a slob but he was manly in his love-making. Too many men made passes at me as if they were afraid that I would submit. I went for girls but that didn't mean that I couldn't respond to a man. The difference was that one thing was emotional and the other a matter of glands.

My body was getting limp. I wanted to get away from him, to escape from his brutal touch and his bruising mouth. But I felt myself beginning to tense and release rhythmically against him.

"What's keeping you two? We've been waiting for those beers. I..." Sylvan's voice broke as he saw us.

Mike looked up in surprise at the interruption and I seized the opportunity to break away from him. I ran to Sylvan.

"Come into the other room with me," I told him. "I want to talk to you. Mike, you stay here."

Allison was in the john so Sylvan and I could talk alone in the living room.

"I'll kill that bastard," Sylvan said.

"Oh, stop being dramatic, Sylvan. He didn't hurt me. Besides, Mike would brush you off like a gnat if you tried to attack him. You must have known that he was bisexual."

"Yes, most trade is. But I thought he'd restrain himself because you were friends of mine. I know he's just been using me." He stopped and looked away. When he turned toward me again there were tears in his eyes. "I've done everything for him and this is the thanks I get. My God, what does he want from me?"

"His kind doesn't know the meaning of gratitude," I said.

"You should see him, Sloane. Sometimes he gets me all worked up. Then he says he's tired. He makes me plead. Other times he goes on all night. I can hardly keep my eyes open at work the next day. I thought he must like me. Otherwise, why would he be so passionate?"

"You answered that one yourself."

"That isn't all," Sylvan went on. "I've done lots of other things for him too."

By this time Mike had come out of the kitchen and had seated himself in a chair facing us. We ignored him.

"Sylvan, have you given Mike any money?"

"Not much. Just a few dollars. He told me he was broke."

"Are you telling me the truth? Are you sure that's all?"

It was too much for Sylvan. He began to cry openly.

"That's what I thought." I said.

"He said he needed the money to buy clothes. He said he didn't have anything besides his uniform."

"And has he brought these clothes that he supposedly bought back to your apartment?"

Sylvan dumbly moved his head in negation.

I got up and crossed over to Mike. As I walked across the room I noticed that Allison was standing in the doorway observing us. I didn't know how long she had bee there.

"Do you have the money with you?" I asked Mike. "I want you to give him back every cent you haven't spent. If you don't, I'll call the police in on this. I'm not kidding!"

Mike looked up at me with a poor attempt at an expression of candid honesty on his coarse features. "I don't have it no more. Look." He pulled a wallet out from the waistband of his trousers and showed me it. "See? I've only got a buck left. I need that to get back to my ship."

"What did you do with the rest of it?"

"I sent it to my mother."

At least it broke the tension. Allison, Sylvan and I collapsed in laughter. Mike stared at us blankly.

When I had recovered myself, I asked Sylvan, "Does he have anything back at your apartment?"

"No. He just had the clothes he's wearing on him when we met. He's been using my shaving things and everything."

"Probably got his kit in a locker somewhere. I'll bet that's where the money is too. How much money did you give him?"

"Twenty bucks," Mike said.

"A little over a hundred dollars," Sylvan said.

"Not enough to risk making a scandal over." I put the rest up to Sylvan. "After what you've seen tonight I don't suppose you'll be wanting this character around any longer. But that's up to you. You have to make the decisions. I can't run your life for you. Just let me say that as your friend I wish that you'd get rid of him as fast as possible."

Sylvan got up off the couch and walked over beside me. We were both standing in front of Mike.

The sailor tensed and seemed to be gathering himself together as if he expected to be in a fist fight shortly.

Sylvan just looked at him as if he were a complete stranger. There was no anger in his face and his voice was gentle as he said, "Mike, I'd appreciate it very much if you'd leave right now. I'm going to stay a while longer. I don't know when I'll get home. When I do, I don't want to find you there. I think it best if we never see each other again."

The sailor looked bewildered. He had expected Sylvan to get violent. He didn't know how to cope with the other man's calmness.

Mike got up slowly as if he were in a state of confusion. He walked to the door and opened it. He walked out to the hall but before closing the door, stuck his head back in and shouted, "Goddamn bunch of perverts! You queers all ought to be put in jail. You're a menace to society!" Then he slammed the door shut behind him.

"I'll make coffee," Allison said. "I think we could all use a cup." She went out to the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, Sloane. I'm ashamed to have involved you and Allison in this sordid business," Sylvan said.

I sat down on the couch and gestured to Sylvan to lie down. He stretched out and put his head in my lap. I stroked his hair. It was damp with perspiration.

"Forget it," I said. "You had no idea this would happen. You're the one I'm worried about."

"Don't worry about me. I admit that a hundred dollars is a lot for me to throw away that way. My salary isn't all that big. But the hundred isn't going to break me."

"It isn't just the money. Sylvan, do you have to go after these casual pick-ups?"

"Use the Y.M.C.A. method, you mean? Cold showers and volleyball? That sublimation idea is no solution."

"Yes, I know," I said. 'There just is no substitute for the embrace of another human being."

"Hear! Hear!" Allison said as she came into the room. She set down the tray she was carrying and placed the cups of coffee within our reach.

"We were just discussing Sylvan's problems concerning meeting a better type of man," I told Allison.

She giggled. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help laughing. It's just that this reminds me so much of the sort of discussions straight girls are always having among themselves. 'Where can we meet eligible men.' But in this case, I wouldn't advise a trip to Grossinger's."

"Hardly," I said. "It's a real problem. Sylvan can't just keep on picking up trade in bars. Look what happened with Mike. Yet we can't expect him to stay alone all the time."

"I couldn't stand that," he said. "You don't understand. I'll do anything for companionship. I really need that more than sex. But I settle for that because it's easier to come by."

"I do understand, Sylvan," Allison's voice was sadly tender. "I know what it is to be so lonely you'd sell your soul for someone you can really talk to."

I stared at Allison but she lowered her head and projected complete absorption in her cup of coffee. She refused to look at me.

It hurt to hear Allison say that. Stupid of me but I had taken it for granted that Allison had never experienced the emotional horrors I had. Oh sure, I knew that something must have gone wrong in her childhood. That was implicit in her aberrant sexual preferences. But I had thought that I was the one who needed a wailing wall. I can be terrificly obtuse at times for someone who's supposed to be perceptive. Lots of people are like me. They make the one they love into some sort of near-inhuman symbol of perfection. And ugly things like loneliness don't happen to perfect things.

We talked until nearly dawn without reaching any conclusions. Sylvan just had to keep going to the places where fairly intelligent people congregated—concerts, adult education classes, lectures, etc.—and hope that someday, somehow he would meet a man who would be both a lover and a friend to him.

Sylvan slept on the couch in the living room that night. It was too late for him to bother going home. He'd just have time to reach his apartment before he'd have to turn around and go to work, anyway. I had a man's white shirt which fitted him so he could go to work without stopping at his place to change.

In addition, I was worried that Mike might be waiting at Sylvan's place. That blockhead was just the type to think that he had some sort of score to settle with Sylvan.

Amy Ferguson came in late in the day after finishing her show. She looked awful. Things weren't bad enough, she informed us in a tired voice, her husband was giving her a real rough time.

By this time everybody concerned was losing hope for placing her nighttime series. Laurie Nelson's pilot had made a hit and was already scheduled for showing in the fall. Happy was still showing the Ferguson pilot to possible sponsors but word had gotten around that it had been turned down. The suspiciousness of show people was working again. Too many of them were afraid to trust their own judgment. They believed that the show was no good for them because others had felt it didn't suit their purposes.

Amy's husband was in his hey-day. The jealous nogood-nik reminded her constantly of her mistake in selecting the script. He was undermining Amy's confidence in herself. It wouldn't last, Amy just wasn't that shaky about herself. God knows she had enough reason not to be. Every actress makes a few booboos during her career and Amy had kept her percentage low.

Worst of all, he was nagging Amy to get rid of her secretary. He was building up a big case that Chris was exerting too much influence over Amy and that Amy had been better off before she hired her. Amy wouldn't fire Chris. I knew one reason why she wouldn't. Everybody else in the office knew that she wouldn't because Chris was a damn good secretary and the best friend Amy ever had. But still, her husband's nagging was getting her down and making her question her relationship with Chris. Every day she had dozens of decisions to make about her shows and personal appearances and now her husband was making her question a facet of her life she had comfortably taken for granted before.

Dave Ferguson didn't know that his wife was in the office at that time. Otherwise he wouldn't have called. But he did and launched into a bombastic exposition of his opinions. Happy just let him talk. Dave finally paused for breath and Happy took the break to jump in.

"Listen to me, you filthy crumb," Happy roared. "If you had something to say you should have said it when it counted, before we started filming."

"But, Happy..."

"No buts. The only thing I have to say to you is that you ought to get down on your knees and thank the Lord that you're married to a wonderful woman like Amy." He slammed down the phone and turned to Amy for approval.

She was all over him with gratitude. He was the greatest, he was the best agent in the world, he was her truest friend, she didn't know what she'd do without him, she'd never go to another agency.

Happy waited until five minutes after Amy had left the office before calling Dave Ferguson back. I listened in again:

Happy: "Dave? Listen, I'm sorry about the way I sounded off."

Dave: "Jesus, what the hell got into you?"

Happy: "Amy was here when you called. I thought you'd realize that from the way I was talking. I had to put on a big act."

Dave: "O.k., but I meant what I said before. You know that Amy doesn't know about the dough I took out of our joint account to back the pilot. I did it on your advice. Now we've got to figure out some way to get that money back into the account before Amy finds out about it."

Happy: "Don't worry about a thing, Dave boy. I'm working on it. I’ll get the money back to you."

Dave: "How? You can't get it by cutting down on paper clips. I sank fifteen thousand smackeroos in that bomb."

Happy: "What do you care how I get the money as long as I get it? I'll tell you this much: I sank some of my own money into it and you can rest assured I'll get that back. And yours along with it."

Dave: "I should have known I could count on you, doll."

Happy: "Sure. Don't forget that the network was underwriting half the costs. A little juggling that they'll never notice and we'll have our investments back. I wouldn't do this for just anybody, you know. The other investors aren't realizing a cent. You know why I'm doing this?"

Dave: "Sure, I know what I've got to do. Don't worry, love, as long as I have anything to say around the Ferguson house, Amy will stay under contract to you."

Happy: "O.k., make sure she does. You know that I could make things pretty hot for you if you fell down on the job, don't you?"

Dave: "You don't have to remind me."

Happy: 'That's fine, Dave. One other thing, stop needling Amy about Chris Salem. You're overdoing it."

Dave: "That dyke! It makes me feel creepy to have her around. You know, sometimes I think that Amy thinks more of her than she does of me."

Happy: "Tough. My heart bleeds for you. Stop pulling a sensitive bit in your old age. I'm telling you, lay off Chris. She's good people. She keeps Amy happy. Besides, I like her. What the hell do you care if she goes for girls?"

Dave: "I just keep thinking that someday she might make a pass at Amy."

Happy: "Don't worry about it. Amy loves you. She told me so herself today."

Dave: "Guess you're right. Well, let's get together soon, sweetheart. We haven't been out together for an evening in a long time."

"Happy: "I've been busy."

Dave: "Pat?"

Happy: "Enough to keep her pregnant in the summer and barefoot during the winter. Most of the time I've been making it with Bibi Johnson."

Dave: "Bibi Johnson? Va-va-voom!"

Happy: "You said it, sweetheart."

Dave: "Good, huh? Well, pass her along when you've had your fill."

Happy: "Don't I always? How's it been going with Sylvia?"

Dave: "Ah, she's alright but, you know how it is, once they've had you it takes a lot to keep them happy. I'm not as young as I used to be. Those broads you pass on to me are wearing me out. I don't know how you keep up the pace."

Happy: "Clean living. Well, we'll get together soon, Dave."

Dave: "Yeah. Well, keep it away from the fan.”

Happy: "You bet. So long, lover."

Dave: "Be seeing you."

I turned off the switchboard after their call. It was time to go home.

It was a beautiful night so I walked home. Maybe I was afraid to take the subway. It would have been embarrassing to upchuck in front of all those people.

It seemed as if every time I thought that I had found the lowest point of Happy's depravity, he came up with something new. Full of surprises, that boy. Sure, I was sick to my stomach over what I had heard but did I have any right to complain? It went beyond guilt by association. I knew what was going on in that office so, if I continued to work there, I was an accomplice in Happy's dirt.

So, as I walked the thirty-odd blocks to my apartment, I reviewed my day in Happy's den of duplicity. Taking it from the top, there was the bit with Marv Banner. I didn't worry about that one too long. As far as I was concerned, he could steal him blind. After what he did to Allison, I couldn't care less if Marv were drawn and quartered by his agents. He deserved everything he got.

Playing up to Amy by blasting her husband was crummy. For one thing, I just couldn't help feeling that the whole thing was in deplorable taste. It really bothered me that Amy went for it. Like I've said, I thought a lot of her as a person.

Of course, Amy didn't know how rotten the whole thing was. She didn't know about Happy's real relationship with her husband. Laughing Boy deliberately kept the two of them at each other's throat. It suited his purposes. That way, Amy needed an understanding man to turn to. And there was Papa Broadman, ready and all too willing to remind Amy how much she needed him to confide in.

Then, there was the issue of the investments in the pilot. Not only had Happy made sure that Amy wouldn't get any dividends on her Broadson, Inc. stock for several years to come by using all their capital to back the pilot, but he had also gone behind Amy's back in getting money from her personal funds. If anything went wrong, Dave Ferguson would bear the brunt of the responsibility.

Dave Ferguson and whoever else he had told might believe that story about Happy's investing his own money but I wasn't buying it. It would be too much like expecting a thief to rob a bank where he kept his own savings.

Golden Boy Broadman was going pretty far in swindling the network. The slightest questionable item and the network's legal department would murder him. It didn't bother me much that he might get away with swindling the network out of a few thousand dollars. They could afford it. Guess I'm some sort of latter day Robin Hood… although you could hardly call lining Happy's pockets helping the poor. What did get me was the utter audacity of the guy. All by his sweet little lonesome he was going to try to dupe some of the best legal experts in the industry.

The height of sophistication: Happy telling Dave Ferguson to ignore the fact that his wife's personal secretary was a lesbian. Neither of those two bums appeared to realize that the relationship went, not only beyond a business one into a friendship, but beyond that. Happy neglected to mention that Dave would find himself without his main means of support if Chris were to stop acting as a buffer between him and Amy.

And when did Amy tell Happy that she was so in love with her husband? Must have been when drunk... when Happy was drunk, not Amy.

Happy had no business telling Amy that her husband was unfaithful but neither should he encourage and participate in Ferguson's perfidies.

A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. More so, he doesn't make gifts of his past girl friends, complete with references. There's a word for that. What difference would it make? I could call Harold Broadman a pimp to his face and it wouldn't faze him. My opinion wouldn't matter to him. What good could I do for him? Happy only cared about being liked by the upper echelon of show business. He didn't even give a plugged option what opinion they had of his personality. Just so long as he was considered a man to be respected in business matters he was satisfied.

Altogether a most unpretty picture. Someone else might have smelled the multitudinous rats around that place sooner but the great brain, Sloane Britain, had taken six months to get the scoop. There was undoubtedly even more that I hadn't yet learned. I knew enough, however. The time had come to make a decision. The job had lots of advantages but, after that afternoon's revelations, I shared responsibility for what went on there every minute longer that I continued to work in that office.

I climbed the steps to my apartment grimly aware of the necessity for an immediate clear-headed appraisal of my plans for the future... and a stronger conviction that I was going to devote great effort to drinking myself stoned that night.

CHAPTER 11

Allison was a big help. She thought my idea about getting zonked a splendid one. We bought enough booze to float the Saratoga, set it up with ice, glasses, etc. on the sideboard and proceeded to goof it up. I was half-drunk already from not sleeping and the firewater finished the job. Allison got loaded for the first time since I had met her. She was even more adorable that way. Maybe I thought so because in the condition I was in the view from left field made almost everything look good. Like I was digging her the most. It matters why?

While I could still articulate, I told her about what had happened. Not only that day, I filled her in on all the smut I had learned about during the preceding six months.

When I finished, Allison said, "Now I know who killed Cock Robin."

"Who?"

"Happy Broadman. He didn't do it himself, of course. He made Cinderella do it by hitting him with her glass slipper. Then, when she married the Prince, Happy was the caterer for the reception. The Prince and Cinderella had a baby boy named Twinkletoes. Happy had a contract with them so they had to let him perform the circumcision. He used a serpent's tooth instead of a knife so the child was traumatized and grew up to be Rumplestilskin."

"Brother, you're gone, my love. Like way out. Before you lose contact altogether, what about helping me decide what to do?"

"That's simple, come to California with me."

"Whether or not I go to California with you will be decided independent of my employment status. The question is, for the sake of argument presuming that I'm going to keep living and working in New York, should I quit my present job?"

"I refuse to accept the basic premise. Therefore, I can't help you decide. I will not even think of your staying in New York. You're corning to California."

"Dictating to me again?"

"No, using Pavlovian conditioning. I figure that if I repeat it often enough I’ll brainwash you till you can't do anything else but come with me."

"There's another word for it," I said.

"Nagging?"

"Precisely. I had enough of it at home. My mother could have won prizes if they held contests in nagging."

"So now I'm like your mother?" Allison said teasingly.

"Yes, and I don't like it. Cut it out."

"What's the matter with you? You're supposed to go for it."

"I don't want you to be a mother to me," I protested.

"Nonsense. You're gay and therefore you're seeking mother substitutes with whom to re-enact the primal situation. I read that somewhere once."

"You read books?!!! Thank God that I found out before it was too late. I've heard about people like you. Your kind is trying to undermine the very foundations of this country. I heard that once at a Klu Klux Klan meeting. Fellow who had the local tar and feather concession was talking. Very interesting talk, very timely. I learned all about you all city folks that night. You people with book larnin' is a menace to decent folks."

Allison crossed over to in front of the television set. "May I take this occasion to announce that one member of the Literate Society to Stamp Out Mom and Apple Pie is in her cups? In fact, you might say I'm inebriated. No, I like four sheets to the wind better. All my sheets unfurled and spread out to catch the vagrant winds." She spread her arms out wide to illustrate. The gesture knocked her off balance and she swayed back against the TV set. It knocked the rabbit ears antenna down and it fell around her, one limb on each side of her shoulders. Allison pondered this for a moment and then looked up with a profound expression. "That's me... symmetry always."

I roared. When I recovered myself, I said, "I have just discovered that I'm in love with the kookiest woman in New York."

"You just find that out?"

"No, I've known it right along but that last bit finished me. Allison my love, you win the prize for irresistible insanity. You're marvelous, my love, simply marvelous."

"You really mean that?"

"As James Joyce would put it, 'Yes'."

That cracked her up. She fell all over me with love. Ever been kissed by someone who can't stop laughing? Their lips keep sort of trembling. It tickles.

I mixed us another drink. Halfway through that one I began to get "Sloane's Reaction" (that's the name I gave it. If Bright could have a disease named for him, why couldn't I have a response to liquor in my name?). "Sloane's Reaction" consisted of most of the effect of the alcohol being concentrated in one particular area. Some people get weak in the knees from booze. Up about a foot and a half was bull's-eye for anything I drank.

If we were going to come to any solution that night I'd have to push the conversation right then, before my mind goofed off with my body. "Allison."

"Yes, baby?"

"Ugh. Don't use that word now. Since you brought up that mother substitute routine I've gotten self-conscious about it."

"You never objected when I used it before."

"I know. But now it's too blatant. I crave subtlety in my regressive acting outs."

"Who's been reading books now?" She lifted one eyebrow mockingly. Allison did this as she winked, by closing both eyes and then opening one. Perfectly adorable. "Anyway, tell me how I can subtly shanghai you aboard the plane to California next week?"

"Allison! Please, baby... I mean, darling... try to be serious for a moment. We could reach a conclusion about this in a few minutes. Then, I promise you, I won't bother you with any more of my troubles for the rest of the night."

Allison composed her face into that absurd caricature of attentiveness that drunks wear. It was ludicrous. She looked as if she were trying to convince an arresting officer of her sobriety.

"Don't you have any thoughts on the subject?" I asked.

"Sure," she said, looking very grave. "To me it's all very simple. I don't know why you insist on making a prime spot production out of it."

She stopped speaking. I could see the alcoholic fuzziness creeping back into her eyes. I fought it fast.

"So it's simple. So tell me about it," I said.

"Very simple. Lovely girl, Sloane Britain, wonderful girl... but she's got some strange idea about herself."

"What do you mean?"

"Like she thinks she's some kind of real down cynic. A mentally retarded orangutan would see through that pose five minutes after meeting her. But she's lived with herself for over twenty years and she still believes most of the nonsense she tells herself. Very sad."

I was beginning to feel highly uncomfortable. The truth doesn't always hurt. More often it is just embarrassing as all hell.

"So, being the adorable idiot that she is, she thinks that she can work in an office where honesty and sincerity are dirty words," Allison continued. "She thinks that she ought to believe that all human beings are out to exploit each other. So what difference does it make if Happy Broadman happens to have carried exploitation to the point of being an art? Cynic Sloane wants to think that working for him might be a good idea. She might learn the fine points of being self-seeking from her boss."

Allison stopped and stared at me fixedly. Then she stretched out on the couch with her head in my lap.

She was still staring at me with eyes that held a potpourri expression of amusement, compassion, mischievousness, and advanced inebriation.

I was no temperance advertisement myself. Otherwise, I don't think I could have taken her observations. That she was saying those things at that time didn't bother me too much. What got me was realizing that she had most likely held the same opinions for a long time. All the while that I had been trying to come on as a juvenile delinquent version of a composite of Messrs Shaw, Wilde and Voltaire, with a dash of Dorothy Parker thrown in, Allison had been seeing through it.

"My beloved Miss Britain," she went on, "I have news for you. You're no cynic. Sure, you see that life and people are ludicrous. It's the foundation of your humor. You laugh at the absurdity of everything and everybody, including yourself. Nothing wrong with that, human beings are ridiculous and some people, I among them, suspect that life is nothing but a cosmic joke."

She raised one finger, like a platform lecturer about to make a point. Instead, she continued the gesture upward and grasped a strand of my hair with it. She continued to play with the lock of my hair throughout the remainder of her discourse.

"In fact, at the risk of having you throw an apoplectic fit, I will go so far as to say that I think you're almost naively idealistic. Emotionally, I mean. Intellectually you know that the great majority of people will be doing more good when they're fertilizing the flowers than they ever did in their lifetimes.

"Now, to the point of all this: In the light of your aforementioned idealism, it is my opinion (don't blame me, you asked me for it) that for you to continue working for Happy Broadman would be self-destructive. In fact, I would predict that before too long one of two things would happen if you did. Either you'd get the screaming meemies or an ulcer or some other form of hysteria... or you'd blow the whole works one day by denouncing Happy to his face and putting yourself through a highly unpleasant scene. So, wouldn't you agree that it's a better idea for you to quit your job now before things get any messier than they are?"

"I... I guess so," I said weakly.

"Good. I'm glad that's taken care of. Now, Sloane," Allison's voice became pathetically beseeching, "could I get drunk again? I had such a lovely buzz on before."

Placing me on an equal footing again. Restoring the frayed edges of my ego by asking my permission. Having me mix the drinks for us both like I was the efficient hostess and she only an invited guest dependent on my largesse. What a woman!

More than ever before I was aware of my luck. Allison was the kind of woman most men looked for all their lives and never found. Warm, loving, intelligent, beautiful, charming and completely feminine. And she was in love with me!

My moment of humility didn't last but at the time I was filled with wonder... what did someone like Allison see in me? Could it have something to do with the rotten things that had happened to me before? Maybe there was something to that idea of suffering being rewarded?

I stayed deeply engrossed in remembering what Allison had said. Not that I was thinking about it or analyzing it. It was more like I kept repeating her words to myself. Like it was religious. Like I had had a mystical experience or something.

All right, so everything Allison had said was so true of me it hurt. So what? This proves I should pack up and follow her across the country? Maybe I was making too big a deal over it? After all, she hadn't told me anything new about myself. I knew those things about myself, I just acted as if I didn't because I fully expected by doing the right things I would someday become more like what I was on the outside.

That naive idealist routine, for instance. I knew that underneath my assumed hard exterior (hard like glass... impervious to all but the sharpest assaulters but likely to shatter if hit by the wrong tone of voice) I was like somebody's overgrown dog, ready at any time to pledge undying devotion to any slob who threw me the right bone. Lucky for me no one did. The gimmick was that I thought that continually assaulting my naive convictions with the seamy facts of reality would eventually penetrate and teach me to be less trusting. The way I saw it, you had to be tough. Real hard, like steel or the world would walk all over you. I was in great shape. I thought I was like the most mature, well-informed on all the latest trends in morbidity, a regular Hedda Hopper of neurotica. The truth was that I had gotten older but not much smarter. I was still mentally only on the second landing and the window wasn't open.

The big deal was that someone else had seen through the facade. It's possible Allison wasn't the first one to do so. I was having conniptions because she was the first one who had the conviction to let me know what she saw. Can't blame most people if they kept their thoughts to themselves. Usually, I had had an aversion to people giving me their analyses of my psyche. Among the literati of New York City that's the favorite indoor sport. Like charades, every goof who had read a magazine article about psychology felt qualified to play the game, what was the other guy acting out? That jazz gave me the chills. Those lovelies wouldn't dream of diagnosing a physical illness but they had no qualms about regarding themselves experts in the science of psychology. I didn't go for it and I wouldn't put up with hearing half-baked interpretations of my unresolved Oedipal conflict and all that sort of stuff. That stuff's for the professionals. I must have frustrated a lot of armchair Freuds in my time. Tough, baby dolls, real tough.

What really counted was that Allison loved me. She saw through me but that didn't mean she didn't like what she saw. That meant that she had a right to see the personality I presented to the world and the .private one I had gone to such lengths to submerge. After all, she loved both sides of me and that's what really mattered.

"Hey, come back. You haven't said a word for ten minutes."

"I was thinking about one of the reasons why I love you," I said.

"What's that?"

"Let me try and illustrate it this way: if you hadn't been able to eat for three days, what would you say" was wrong with you?"

Allison looked at me as if she were afraid that I had finally flipped out so far I'd never come back. "I'd say that I was hungry."

"That's what I thought. And that's one of the reasons I love you."

"Because I get hungry? Girl, I've heard of being weird, but this beats all."

"Really? You should read Stekel. However," I explained, "that is far from being my hangup. No, the point I'm trying to make is that you can get hungry without calling yourself oral-retentive. That's one of the reasons for my loving you. I've known too many of the other kind. People who can't enjoy eating an artichoke without thinking they're oral-regressive."

"I know the type. Sounds like some of the friends I made when I first came to the city. They bored me stiff."

"Yeah. You know, I've gotten revoltingly sober in the last hour. What about you?"

"Me too. I thought this drink would get me back where I was before but it hasn't. We're almost out of Scotch too."

"I could go down and buy some more," I suggested.

"Hey, I just got a better idea. Ever had a Sidecar?"

"No."

"You've been missing something. It's my favorite cocktail but I seldom drink it because after three of them I've been known to start thinking I was Madame Butterfly."

"That must be quite a scene," Allison said.

"You shouldn't know from it. Once, at a party, I lost count of how many I drank. All I know is that at one point I came out of the john with the end of a roll of toilet paper in my hands. I unwound it all the way into the living room where I proceeded to announce that I was that Butterfly cat. All the time I was tearing the tissue into little pieces and tossing them about like they were flower petals."

"You're making it up."

"So help me Giacomo Puccini, I'm telling the truth. At least that's what I'm told I did. I don't remember that night too clearly," I protested. "Anyway, I have a bottle of brandy in the kitchen and some Cointreau somewhere around the place. A smidgeon of lemon juice and we've got a Sidecar. How about it? Should I mix up a batch?"

"On top of Scotch? Oh, what the hell, let's try it anyway. But please," Allison requested, "no Madame Butterfly tonight."

"Don't worry, I passed the Puccini stage long ago. It'll be Der Rosencavalier, at least."

"H-m-m-m. As I remember, the opening scene holds some interesting possibilities."

"Hold it. We better take this topic up again after I've made the drinks or we'll never get around to them."

I had never mixed a Sidecar before. I guess it takes practice. Anyway, mine were palatable... but just barely. We had three each. I was seeing the world through rose-coloured glasses... someone else's prescription.

We were sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch. I felt safer down there. Allison had her head on my shoulder and my arm was around her.

Suddenly I became aware that she had her tongue in my ear. No, that couldn't be right. She wouldn't just start out that way. She'd build up to something like that. Guess I had been drinking up such a storm I hadn't known that she had been kissing my neck.

When she withdrew her lips I turned and gathered her to me. "Well, hello there, pretty girl. Where did you come from?" I teased as I took liberties with her clothing.

"Glad you're back. For a while there I thought you were more interested in your drink than you were in me."

"Baby, you know I'm weak for you. Wait a minute and I'll prove it," I said, standing up and unfastening what appeared to be a million zippers.

"You should have music." Allison got up and put a stack of records on the phonograph. She turned the volume control way up. She had selected some jazz records of the Kansas City and Chicago barrelhouse and blues styles. Old stuff like they used to play in the speakeasies and brothels. It came swinging out of the speaker real raunchy and low-down. So right for the occasion. It was very definitely not the time for Italian opera.

"O.k., you've got your accompaniment. Now do your bit," Allison said.

I didn't get what she meant at first but then I dug it and I goofed. I mean, like brother, I flipped. That wasn't my bit.

Allison was still standing by the phonograph. "Come on, I'm waiting. The curtain's up. The music's playing. What are you waiting for? A fan?"

"Allison, I couldn't. I'd be too embarrassed."

"Nothing to it. Just make like you're in bed. Let the music reach your hips. Like this." She came toward me slowly, giving it back to a frantic bass fiddle with bumps and grinds that would do credit to a shake dancer twenty years in the business.

By the time she reached me she had me in a sweat. I grabbed her and ripped off what few clothes she still had on. She let me but when I tried to kiss her she backed away and began moving around again.

They hadn't taught her that in her ballet classes. But the training had helped make her graceful. There wasn't much room for her to show her stuff but she didn't need much.

She mostly stood in one spot and made her body go places while her feet stood still.

Man, I was kicked right out of my mind. But I really cracked up when she pulled a bit I had seen once at a strip joint on Third Street in the Village. When I watched that professional stripper do it I had been a little embarrassed but mostly as bored as the dancer had been. When the woman I loved did the same thing the effect, to understate to the point of absurdity, was different.

Allison extended her tongue out as far as it would go. She brought her hands up and licked the palms of each. Then, arching her body back from the waist so that her gorgeous breasts swelled out full and inviting toward me, she brought her hands down and cupped her breasts, like she was offering them to me. Then, she placed her palms flat against the pink tips and caressed them, her body swaying longingly, an expression of languid sensual delight on her face, her eyes open and staring at me with defiance and excitement.

With an involuntary moan, I fell to my knees before her, clasping her legs tightly and burying my lips in the silken pliancy of her thighs. Allison swayed sinuously in my arms.

Ardent pulsations coursed through the writhing body in my arms. My legs had lost their power. I couldn't rise. My body stretched upwards, stretching, straining for fulfillment. Up, up, my body pressed against the muscular hardness of her legs, my lips and tongue seeking, needing. Allison was shivering, small meaningless sounds coming from the depths of her throat.

Allison tossed limply, leaning against me for the support her trembling legs could no longer give her. A thin high-pitched scream and long shudders wracking through the length of her body and then my name repeated and repeated over and over again.

* * *

We were lying on the floor, the rayon rug prickling my bare skin. I was too relaxed to bother moving.

Allison was lying with her face cradled on my bosom. Her body was limp, her eyes closed. I could tell that she wasn't sleeping, though, by the rhythm of her breathing and by the small grasping motions she made at me every time I shifted my position slightly.

She stiffened one arm against the floor and propped herself up to a near sitting position. Her face was almost white, drained, exhausted. I noticed that the arm she was using to support herself was trembling as if too spent to expend any effort.

She stared at me long and hard without speaking. Then, a voice that was heavy with desperation said, "I love you much. Too much. I'll have to pay for this, Sloane. It must be sinful to get so much pleasure from one person. Somehow I feel that there must be something evil in my wanting to have you be the center and meaning of my life. Sloane, I want that so very much. God help me, I adore you!"

"Darling, you shouldn't look at it that way. That way of thinking's merely a carry-over from the medieval..." I never got to finish my statement. A look of longing had come over Allison's face. Feverish desire set her eyes aflame. She cut me off in mid-sentence with an insistent kiss.

Her lips, which I had always known to be soft and gentle, bore down on me inflexibly. I was taken aback and put off by the punishing fierceness of her kiss.

It was Allison who was kissing me, however. Allison who was roughly fondling me. The woman I loved whose body was crowding mine. As the initial surprise passed away, I began to respond. I could feel my taut muscles relaxing. My lips parted and I invited more sensual kisses.

Allison reacted by lessening the whiplash ferocity of her lovemaking. She became tender and adoring.

Briefly, she raised herself a few inches, to tell me, "Every time we touch, I feel as if a miracle were happening." Then she came back to my lips. But in the brief moment when she had her eyes open I had seen passionate desire that bordered on desperation.

I wriggled free and stood up. "I got up because I can't really believe that you want to make love again. Not so soon. I think you're doing it for some other reason. I don't know what it is but I'm highly suspicious of its being something other than sexual."

"Wrong, my love. I want you because I love you. If you think I should be some sort of limp lily now, I'm sorry to disappoint you. Sloane, I want you. I'm aroused again, honest. Maybe I'm turning nympho in my old age."

"Sure?"

"Dammit, what do you want? A signed affidavit? Let me put it this way, if you don't stop questioning me this instant and get back here in my arms where I can say whatever I have to say in sign language, I'll make you stop."

"Oh? You're also getting pretty cocky in your old age," I said. "What makes you so sure you can stop me?"

Allison smiled. Now I know what they mean by that Cheshire cat bit. She looked as if swallowing the canary were her hourly habit. "The records are still stacked. All I have to do is put them back on the changer and start the music playing. I don't think you'd keep giving me such a hard time if I were to start dancing again."

"Aah, I've seen that act already. Your performance would suffer from repetition. It just wouldn't have the same effect," I lied. "You know, like a mystery story. Once you know the ending, there's not much point in re-reading the story again."

Allison stretched luxuriously, emphasizing the slim voluptuousness of her figure. Then she put her hands on her sleekly rounded hips and gently kneaded the supple flesh. "You only saw the first act. There are two more and an encore. Shall I begin?" she cooed.

"D-don't bother. Any more of that and I'd be a candidate for a nut hatch." I meant it. I was so steamed up it was killing me to keep up the teasing and not just fall to it. Another performance of Allison's and I'd be locked up for loving her to death.

"There's only one way to keep me from dancing again. Come over here, darling," Allison cooed.

"Do we have to use the floor again? My back already feels like the bottom of a birdcage. If you want me, come after me." I turned and ran into the kitchen.

Allison ran after me, laughing. We were both giggling so much we could hardly keep running. Guess we were both cracked up by the same thing, an image of how we would look to an observer, running around the apartment naked.

I barely escaped her grasp as I headed out of the kitchen, through the living room, to the foyer. It was a long narrow hall with the bedroom at one end and the door to the outside at the other.

I ran until I collided with unyielding wood. The outside door. In my excitement I had run in the wrong direction.

Allison had me trapped. There was only room for one person to walk down the hall at a time. She surged up against me, not able to break the momentum she had built up while running. The impact crushed me to the door. The wood protested loudly and the thud of my impact gathered volume in the empty halls and stairwell. Oh Christ, and with the landlord living right in the building! I was sure there would be an eviction notice for me the next day. You understand, I didn't know exactly what time it was but it had to be some time after midnight.

The unexpected noise flipped us both. We thought it was funny. We goofed it up laughing and making guesses about what the other tenants had done when they heard the sound. Like what they had been doing when it happened and how they might have interpreted it. We were breaking each other up.

Allison stopped laughing first. There was nothing humorous about the way her fingers were probing my body. What there is to do with hands in order to achieve certain effects, she was doing. Anything else, there isn't.

My laugh went to a grin to something quite other than hilarity. Allison had her hand behind my head, tugging a handful of my hair until my head was inclined backward. She bent over me and brought her mouth to mine. Instead of kissing me, she kept her lips a fraction of an inch away and traced the outlines of my mouth with the tip of her tongue. Playing with the contours of my parted lips.

She was using her hands and fingers to fondle me like a bibliophile examining the Gutenberg Bible. A delicious languor spread through me. My heart was beating frantically, blood spurting lustily through me, throbbing inside me that blocked out sight and sound, present and future. Only Allison and the exquisite sensations of her touch were real.

"No, no, Allison. Please, not here. Not so close to the door. The neighbors... they'll hear us." Some part of my mind that I wasn't in touch with was being rational. I heard myself speaking but wasn't aware that I was articulating, nor had any idea where the .logical, coherent thoughts came from.

"They can't hear me making love to you, baby. That's just between us," Allison said. She followed her words with a probing kiss and then her mouth was roving my body, just the tip of her tongue extended.

Her mouth was on my breast, the wet pink wonder teasing the tips. I was sinking further and further into ardent urgency. My body had gone slack with need and it was only the pressure of Allison's body propping me against the door that kept me upright. I was falling limply. Allison started easing me down to the floor, not stopping her stroking.

"No. Please," I said weakly. "I don't want to here. Not on the floor. Not in front of the door."

Allison's voice was tight and husky. She had to take a deep breath before speaking. "I guess you're right. That might wake someone." She swayed against me and buried her head in my shoulder. "Oh, dearest, it's so wonderful when you finish. I love the way you go out of your mind and become so free and wild and unrestrained. My baby, it's so good to see you when you're like that. You're a different person, primitive, uninhibited and so completely mine. And the things you say at that time! Like they came from deep inside you where your sincerest feelings are. You say such lovely things to me then, Sloane precious. As if you had no control over what you were saying, sometimes you whisper so that I can hardly hear you, other times there are no words, just rapturous sounds, and sometimes you just let go and proclaim your ecstasy. Those times you usually call out my name. Like it was something of great beauty. Or loudly, as if you wanted to tell the world that I was the one you love." She picked her head up. "Yes, I guess you have a point. We had better get away from the door."

Allison helped me get up. Every bone and muscle in my body had turned to jelly. She propped-me up in front of her as we went down the hall to the bedroom. Allison kicked the bedroom door shut behind us with the heel of her foot.

I was on the bed. Allison was standing next to the bed staring down at me. Then Allison was embracing me, the slippery velvet of her perspired body pulsating against me. Mouth on my mouth. Silken lips against mine. Hands and fingers stroking, clasping, fondling. Lips touching, brushing, sliding over my body. Agonizingly exquisite tongue seeking, caressing. I in the torturous ache of ecstasy, in the rapture of transport, then, quickly, knotted up with tension... release and flowing out and, "Allison, Allison, Allison, I love you. My precious darling. Allison, Allison, Allison, Allison..."

* * *

What was probably much later, I realized that sunlight was coming in the room from around the edges of the drapes. There was a clock on the bedside table. I twisted myself up and to the side in order to read its face which was turned away from me. I was very careful not to awaken Allison who was sleeping in the embrace of my left arm. I picked up the clock and brought it close to my eyes. Myopia and a hangover made me tempted to use braille. Finally, I was able to make out the time.

"Is it very late?" a sleepy voice inquired from the other side of the bed.

"We must have fallen asleep. It's 9:15 already. I'm going to have to hustle to get to the office in time."

"Damn! I've got an appointment with a photographer for this morning. I'm due there already and I don't even know where the hell I left my clothes around this voyeur's dream. And I have to go back to my place to pick up my stage make-up. Oh, I hope he waits for me. I don't care if he kills me for being so late, just so long as he's there. He's one of the best cameramen in the business and I've waited months to get this appointment with him. I need a lot of new stills for distribution on the Coast. They're going to know Allison Millay is in town if I have to send them pictures and bios every day for a year."

"You better have some breakfast. Posing under those hot fights will knock you out if you don't. Remember, you've had hardly any sleep. Couple that with not eating and holding poses in the glare of those hot spotlights and they'll have to carry you out frothing at the mouth."

"You're right. I'll grab something to eat while I'm in the taxi. I won't have time to sit down to breakfast."

I let Allison have the bathroom first because she was so late. I'd never make it to the office on time but, if Judy or Happy had anything to say about it they'd be sorry. I was in no mood to put up with their nonsense that day. I would only be half to three-quarters of an hour late. They had no right to make a big deal out of that. Every human being is a little late for work once in a while. Once in a while? Face it, Sloane, I told myself, you've been late so often in the six months you've worked there that the elevator operators probably think you're due at work sometime around eleven. So what? Just let one of them say anything today and I'll make them wish that they had stayed in bed. With my voice, I can make almost any line sound like an impeachment proclamation if I'm careful of my delivery.

Allison finished washing and was standing before the bathroom sink, putting layers of greasy makeup over the dark circles around her eyes and on the pink and blue blemishes around her mouth, the ones I had put there. She was looking at her reflection in the mirror as if she saw there some sort of hag. I should look half as ugly as she.

I got into the shower while she was making with the paint and took a quick one. Allison was combing her hair when I came out. She must have seen my reflection in the mirror because all of a sudden she whirled around toward me.

"Sloane, baby, did I do that? You look like you've been through the wars. You're covered with bruises. How did you get a black-and-blue mark there?"

"Don't tell me you've forgotten last night?" I was on the verge of tears. It would've been too much if Allison had been like those drunks Banner, Perry Matthews and Herb Talman... if her passion had come from a bottle and was a thing that meant no more to her than a hangover the next day.

"I remember what I felt last night. My emotions, most of the action and that it was divine. The exact continuity of events is a little mixed up in my mind. I do know that we were both pretty frenzied and that things were done by both of us last night that we'd never gone in for before. As I recall, it seems to me that we made love all over this apartment. However, I don't remember the exact sequence of events. No, I couldn't give a detailed plot outline of last night. Is that important?"

"No, of course not. I don't think I could either. There is one thing that will bother me if I don't ask about it now, though. Last night, when we started making love, you know, when you danced to the phonograph music... well, what happened after that worries me. You were sort of, well, hard like. I'm not referring just to your actions. There was a lack of your usual loving warmth and tenderness. I'm talking about an emotional quality that wasn't there. It was somewhat like the difference between love and lust."

Allison breathed a deep sigh and bit down on her lower lip. "I know. I'm always that way. When I'm hurt, I withdraw. Because of the way I feel about you I couldn't just keep away from you. Instead, something inside me shut off. I suppose you've got those bruises because, and I assure you I wasn't conscious of it, I wanted to hit back at you for hurting me so much."

I had been standing like some kind of idiot with the sopping wet towel held before me, dripping puddles onto the floor. I started to speak but a gurgling croak came out... I hadn't remembered to close my mouth before speaking, it had been agape all through Allison's reply.

"Baby," I finally managed, "I don't know what I did but if I hurt you, I'm sorry, genuinely so. But I can't imagine what I did wrong."

"You didn't give me your decision about coming to California with me. It was our last night together and I expected you to say something. Even if you had said no, it would have been kinder than not saying anything. You acted as if whether you came with me or not was an unimportant matter. I wasn't going to force you to put anything into words. I've got a little pride left. Not much, I admit, but enough to keep me from humiliating myself any more than I had already. I suppose your silence meant that you've decided not to go to the Coast. Is that right?"

"Just a little old minute. I mean no such thing. What's the rush? The Singer Show isn't leaving for two more weeks. I could get plane reservations by calling in a week in advance. It's a big decision. I wanted as much time as possible to think it over. I didn't think you'd mind if I didn't let you know until next week. What's this bit about last night being our last night together. Why, for God's sake?"

"Because of yesterday's new development. I got in touch with you just as soon as I knew about it myself." Allison must have seen the complete bewilderment on my face because she looked at me incredulously and asked, "You got my message, didn't you?"

"What message?"

"The one I asked Judy to give you. I called while you were out to lunch. I was going to be busy the rest of the afternoon and couldn't call back so I dictated a message for you to Judy. She said she'd give it to you as soon as you came back to the office. I made everything clear in that message. That's why your actings if everything was just the same hurt me so much."

"Allison, I swear to you, Judy didn't give me any message yesterday. She didn't even tell me you had called." Damn that freak Judy! That wasn't the first time she had "forgotten" to tell me about personal calls that had come in for me when I was away from my desk. Don't tell me her memory had been bad. If anyone called Happy, Judy would remember it all right. She could be dying and she'd gasp it out with her last breath. She didn't have the gumption to tell me she didn't like my getting personal calls at the office so she let me miss about half the calls she answered for me. I guess I was supposed to interpret this to mean that I shouldn't use the phone except for business. I knew what she was getting at but I hadn't let it stop me. The messages I hadn't gotten probably weren't all that important. If someone urgently needed to talk to me, they'd call back. But this time Judy had gone too far. This was being malicious, not just petty. "It's the truth, Allison. This is the first I've heard of your calling the office yesterday."

She collapsed against the sink, weak with laughter. "It's too incredible," she gasped. "I thought things like this only happened in Restoration comedies. The crucial message that goes astray and the ensuing farce scene where the boy and girl meet and insult each other because they don't know what's happened and each of them is talking about something different. Oh-oh, this is too rich. Somebody ought to have said that they'd never darken the other's door again. That's all we would have needed to make this period piece complete." She broke up in helpless laughter again.

I waited until she had subsided to giggles before asking, "Just what was it you asked Judy to tell me?"

"I called you right away because the Crystal soap people want me to start filming those spot commercials Monday of next week. That means that I've got to fly out to the Coast in four days. No, three days. It was four yesterday. Anyway, they're going to keep me busy for the two weeks until the Singer Show arrives and I have to start rehearsing for that. I won't have a chance to come back to New York.

When I leave a few days from now it'll be for good. At least, for the next three years. So, you understand now why last night was the last one I could spend with you? I have only three days and nights to do a mountain of packing, close out my bank account, say goodbye to all my friends, buy a load of new clothes, return the books and records I've borrowed from friends, take care of ten thousand business matters. I'm going to be too busy to blow my nose for the next three days. Coming here last night was allowing myself a luxury which I really couldn't afford. Now, do you understand why I was hurt? Remember, I had no idea that you didn't know it was our final chance to be alone."

"Allison, now that I know, I wouldn't have blamed you if you had told me to go to hell in a wheelbarrow."

"Thank the Lord I didn't do something like that. Then we would never have straightened this out."

"Yeah. Well, frankly I'm so taken off guard by this that I don't know what to say. Would you hate me very much if I didn't let you know until tonight? I could call or maybe come over and help you with your packing."

"It's all right, darling," Allison said. "I'll wait for your call tonight. In the meantime, I'll be praying to every god, saint, angel, prophet and holy man I can think of from every religion known to me that you will be on the plane to California with me. Look out the office windows during the day. If you see a girl doing what looks like a demoniac mazurka around one of the trees in Central Park, it'll be me. I think I'll try invoking the Druid deities too, I'm afraid to leave anything out."

CHAPTER 12

I finally got to the office a few minutes before eleven. Happy was giving dictation to Judy in his office. They both looked up as I got off the elevator. I stared down anything they were about to say. There was blood in my eye that morning, I tell you. To rub things in a little more, I disappeared into the john for ten more minutes. By the time I finally sat down at my desk Judy was ready to have apoplexy.

She brought some work out for me to do and lingered in my office, waiting for me to give some excuse for my tardiness. I didn't say a word. Instead, I pointedly got out an ebony and silver cigarette holder that I had never before used. It was a real classy thing that a client had given me, six inches long and mucho impressive. I stuck a cigarette into it, lighted it and waved the thing around affectedly. Hip Judy was not but she got my message that time. She went back to her own office like a whipped puppy.

Happy was having a ball with one of his chicks on his private phone. I don't know what the girl was saying to him but I could get a good idea from the way he kept squirming around as he talked to her. Every once in a while he'd get a real sappy grin on his face as if she had just said something especially toothsome.

Meanwhile, the phones were ringing like crazy and I was trying desperately to get him to answer a few calls. Some of them were real important business calls but Happy didn't seem to care. He just went on talking and twitching.

I had my hands full with the phones until about one o'clock when things quieted down. That was the first chance I had had to look at the work Judy had given me to do. It was time for me to go out to lunch but I decided to have a sandwich sent up. I wanted to be fair, coming into work two hours late was enough, I'd make up the time by working through my lunch-hour.

There were tons of bills from the Ferguson pilot that had to be taken care of. That meant mailing out checks for about a third of them. The remainder received letters of acknowledgment. Harold Broadman informs you that he knows he owes you money and requests that you get the hell off his neck as he will pay up when he damn well gets around to it.

I came across one bill that was a whopper. A couple of thousand dollars for a blonde mink jacket. Originally contracted for rental, the jacket had been lost. Broadson, Inc. would have to pay the full price.

A blonde mink jacket. The one that Amy had worn for the pilot. The one that looked so much like the jacket Happy had bought for Pat Donnelly. Looked like? Oh, no!

That was going too far. It couldn't be true. I stared at the bill in my hand as if it were an hallucination. It wasn't. It was real and Happy Broadman was cheating the daylights out of Amy Ferguson so he could give his mistress a big deal birthday present. Amy Ferguson who was his most loyal, nicest, most financially valuable client. And he was robbing her at the one time in her career when she had suffered a setback, when she needed all the support she could get.

I had had it. It took a lot but I had finally reached the point of no return with Mr. Broadman. I was leaving. Immediately, that afternoon. No two week's notice, decency wouldn't be appreciated in that office. I was going to play the game their way. When in Sodom, do as the Sodomites... no, that wasn't right. Anyway, as soon as Happy came back from lunch I told him I was quitting, and I told him why.

Happy tried to deny that he was a crook but I wasn't having any of it so he gave up that approach. He began giving me his usual garbage, tried to outshout me, bully me into staying. Guess he was afraid I'd leave that office and start telling tales out of school.

"Scream at me quietly, Happy," I told him. "I don't go for the megaphone bit."

He tried, he honestly did but it was like he was allergic to peace and quiet, he couldn't keep his voice down. Judy joined in. I just ignored them and cleaned out my desk as if they weren't there.

I was waiting for the elevator when Happy switched his pitch and began pleading with me to stay because I was such an irreplaceable employee. The office would just fall apart without me. He sounded like a beseeching lover.

The elevator came. "Why, Mr. Broadman, how you do go on," I said. "You're enough to turn a girl's head." With that I stepped into the elevator. The door closed behind me. End of an era.

* * *

I called Sylvan and told him what had happened. He was working on a rush project and could only spare an hour but he insisted that I come down and have a drink with him.

I wasn't very good company for him. I had been angry, I had expressed the anger and then I got depressed. I knew I had done the right thing. Big consolation, I still felt lousy.

"Trouble with you is you're free. Freedom is an awful burden," Sylvan said.

"Yeah, it's a drag. I always thought I'd love being this way. No ties, no attachments. I can decide on doing anything, going anywhere. Trouble is, I don't want to do anything. I just want to sit still for the next twenty or thirty years."

"Impossible. You can't. You're one of those people with built in ants in the pants."

"Thanks," I said ruefully. "That's the sweetest thing anybody ever said to me. Sylvan, what am I going to do? I want to get out of this town. I want to get away from all the dirt and mess of New York. But I don't know where to go."

"Sloane, Allison called me this morning," he said quietly. "She told me about leaving for the Coast Saturday. Why don't you go with her?"

"Because I waited too long to tell her I'd go. Because she might think that I was going with her because I want to sponge off her. I have no job, no money. I'd have to borrow from her until I got back on my feet. If only I had told her I'd go before all this happened. Then it would have looked as if I was going just because I wanted to be with her. This way, it looks fishy."

"Bull. Thank God you're telling me this instead of saying it to Allison. Maybe you don't realize it, but you're insulting her horribly. Sloane, Allison loves you. Remember that. She won't mind laying out a few bucks if it means having you near her. Go with her. Please, for her sake as well as your own."

"I don't know. I just don't know. Sylvan, something tells me you're right but I just can't make up my mind. Let me think about it a while longer."

"There isn't very much time left to think."

"I'm aware of that. Oh hell, let's drop it. I'll be able to think more clearly when I'm alone."

"You sound real low."

"I am."

"Maybe you shouldn't be alone. Look, I'll call the office and say that I took sick or something. Then I could stay with you for the rest of the day."

"Thanks but don't bother. I need to be alone."

I walked Sylvan back to the building where he worked. Just before we parted he said, "Be sure to write."

"Write? Oh, you mean from California. What makes you so sure I'm going?"

"You're going."

"Glad to hear it. Especially since I haven't made up my own mind yet. You seem to think you can make it up for me. Haven't you ever heard of free will?"

He smiled patronizingly. "Yes, I've heard of it. And that's why I know you'll be flying to the Coast on Saturday. Well, cheerio my deario and I'll be expecting a letter from you next week." And with that he disappeared into the building.

I went down to the Harbor. A few girls always came in around that time for cocktails on their way home from work. There were about ten women there when I arrived.

I recognized Dinah sitting in a booth with a vacuous looking redhead. Both women looked like they had been run over by tanks. They had bruises and bandages on their faces.

I approached them. Dinah remembered me and invited me to join them. She saw me staring at the wounds and explained them to me.

"We had a fight last night. Mary just had to find out who was boss. She found out all right. That's right, isn't it baby?"

Mary nodded dumbly.

"I ain't mad," Dinah went on. "These things happen. Mary won't pull anything like that again. She knows who's the daddy now."

Dinah went on telling me about their fight. She bragged about the way she had beaten Mary to insensibility. The point seemed to be that this proved she was worthy or something.

I'm telling you, Dinah's bilge got me down. It was like I was seeing what I would be letting myself in for if I went back to cruising the gay bars. Sure, I knew there were other types of girls. But when gay girls act out the forms of love without the content existing, things like what happened between Dinah and Mary are all too common.

Maybe somebody up there arranged the whole thing so that Dinah and Mary would have a fight one night and the next afternoon be in the Harbor when I got there and that Dinah would turn my stomach by telling me about it. I don't know. All I do know is that it turned the trick. I finished my drink out of politeness and lit out of there.

I didn't bother calling. I just grabbed a cab and hightailed it up to Allison's. I was there in fifteen minutes and up the stairs and knocking on her door.

Allison answered the door. She looked surprised and pleased. I didn't say anything. I just walked past her into the apartment, checked the place to make sure Ruth wasn't there, then came close to breaking Allison's ribs in an embrace of relief, and love and peace and decision.

We kissed for a long time. Not one of those kisses where we teased each other. Just a matter of contact that took the place of words that would say I need you, I love you, you give me strength, I want you near me always.

I took my lips from hers and looked down at her lovely face. She was leaning back in my arms, her eyes half closed, the corners of her mouth turned up in a slight smile. I love you, I thought, I love you because of what you are and not just because I need to love. I love you and nothing in this world is more important to me than being with you.

I thought those things but the only thing I said was, "Call the airline. See if you can get a reservation for me on the flight you're taking."

Allison nodded wordlessly and went to the telephone. While she was dialing the number I sat down on the couch and lit a cigarette. If she could get a reservation for me, I'd have to leave in a few minutes and go home to pack. That cigarette would be the last one I'd ever have in that apartment.

I listened while Allison talked to the airline ticket agent. She didn't make a reservation for me. She confirmed the one she had made the day before for both of us.

~ ~ ~

AFTERWORD

A new revolution was underway at the start of the 1940s in America—a paperback revolution that would change the way publishers would produce and distribute books and how people would purchase and read them.

In 1939 a new publishing company—Pocket Books—stormed onto the scene with the publication of its first paperbound book. These books were cheaply produced and, with a price of twenty-five cents on their light cardboard covers, affordable for the average American.

Prior to the introduction of the mass-market paperback, as it would come to be known, the literary landscape in America was quite different than what it is today. Reading was primarily a leisure-time pursuit of the wealthy and educated. Hardcover books were expensive and hard to find, so purchasing books was a luxury only the rich living in major metropolitan areas could afford. There simply weren’t many bookstores across the country, and only gift shops and stationary stores carried a few popular novels at a time.

The Pocket Books were priced to sell, however, and sell is what they did… in numbers never before seen. Availability also had a great effect on sales, in large part due to a bold and innovative distribution model that made Pocket Books available in drugstores, newsstands, bus and train stations, and cigar shops. The American public could not get enough of them, and before long the publishing industry began to take notice of Pocket Book’s astonishing success.

Traditional publishers, salivating at the opportunity to cash in on the phenomenal success of the new paperback revolution, soon launched their own paperback ventures. Pocket Books was joined by Avon in 1941, Popular Library in 1942, and Dell in 1943. The popular genres reflected the tastes of Americans during World War II—mysteries, thrillers, and “hardboiled detective” stories were all the rage.

Like many of the early paperback publishers, Dell relied on previously published material for its early books, releasing “complete and unabridged” reprints under different titles by established authors. Within a couple of years it was focused exclusively on mysteries, identifiable by the Dell logo on the cover—a small keyhole with an eye looking through it. Many of the Dell mysteries also featured a colored map on the back cover representing the various locations pertaining to the story’s crime. These “mapback” editions became extremely popular and by 1945, Dell was publishing four new books a month.

The new paperback industry was faced with some difficult challenges during World War II. In particular, the War Board’s Paper Limitation order placed serious restrictions and rations on the use of paper. Publishers began to worry whether they would have enough paper to satisfy both the civilian and military appetite for paperbacks. Manpower shortages and transportation difficulties were also proving to be difficult challenges. In response, some publishers—Pocket Books, for instance—reduced their publication schedules and reset their books in smaller type thereby reducing the number of pages per book. Others simply rejected longer books in favor of shorter ones.

In the end, World War II proved to be a boon to the emerging paperback industry. During the war, a landmark agreement was reached with the government in which paperbound books would be produced at a very low price for distribution to service men and women overseas. These books—Armed Services Editions, as they were called—were often passed from one soldier or sailor to another, being read and re-read over and over again until they literally fell apart. Their stories of home helped ease the soldier’s loneliness and homesickness, and they could be easily carried in uniform pockets and read anywhere—in fox holes, barracks, transport planes, etc. Of course, once the war was over millions of veterans returned home with an insatiable appetite for reading. They were hooked, and their passion for reading these books helped launch a period of unprecedented growth in the paperback industry.

The reading tastes of these veterans were directly reflected in the popularity of certain genres at the turn of the decade. In the mid- to late 1940s, mysteries, romance, thrillers, and hardboiled detective stories seemed to sell better. In the early 1950s new genres—science fiction, westerns, gay and lesbian, juvenile delinquent and “sleaze”, for instance—gained in popularity as readers were presented with stories never before seen in print. Publishers also came to realize that sex would sell books… lots of books. In a competitive frenzy for readers, they ditched their conservative and straightforward cover images for alluring covers that frequently featured a sexy woman in some form of undress, along with a suggestive tag line that promised stories of sex and violence within the covers. Before long, books with sensational covers had completely taken over the paperback racks and cash registers. To this day, the cover art of these vintage paperback books are just as sought after as the books themselves were sixty years ago.

Science fiction titles reflected the uncertain times during which they were written. The Cold War was just beginning, the threat of nuclear annihilation was on everyone’s mind, governments in Eastern Europe were falling to Communists, and Senator Joseph McCarthy was looking for “un-American activities” everywhere in the United States. Many science fiction stories in the early days of the paperback revolution were little more than soap operas or westerns set in space—good guys taking on bad guys while rescuing damsels in distress—that were short stories taken from the pulp magazines. In 1952, however, Ballantine Books changed all that by becoming the first paperback publisher to release novel-length science fiction stories that were sophisticated, intelligent and thematically serious. In 1953, Ballantine Book No. 41 was released—Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451—and the paperback’s science fiction genre launched like a rocket heading to Venus.

The popularity of this new genre wasn’t lost on new paperback publisher, Ace Books, which became known primarily for its publication of sci-fi titles. Not content with publishing one science fiction novel at a time, Ace came up with an interesting gimmick—the double novel. Priced at thirty-five cents, the “Ace Double” featured two paperback novels bound back-to-back with the back cover appearing upside-down in the racks. The stories contained within these “double” paperbacks were novellas or long short stories, rather than novels, but the reading public didn’t care—they loved getting two books for the price of one! The format also worked to the advantage of Ace Books, as they were able to combine the work of an unknown (and, therefore, less expensive) writer with that of a prominent and popular author. As a result, the careers of more than a few aspiring science fiction writers were launched via the innovative “Ace Double.”

Science fiction would not be the only genre with titles flying off the shelves in the early 1950s, however. And, it is unlikely that even Gold Medal Books knew, in 1950, just how successful its first lesbian-themed paperback original novel—Women’s Barracks—would be. Written by Tereska Torres, and based on her experiences in London with the French Resistance movement during World War II, the book was not intended to launch an entire lesbian genre—it was a story about women during wartime, some of whom happened to be romantically involved with other women. The story simply resonated with men and women alike—both straight and gay—and by the end of 1950 had sold more than a million copies for Gold Medal.

Women’s Barracks also caught the attention of the government, unfortunately, and was singled out by the Gathings Committee as an example of how the paperback industry was subverting the morals of America. The threat of fines and incarceration made the paperback industry skittish about publishing anything that could be considered “indecent” and before long, a sort of self-censorship was in full swing. Many stories featuring characters that lived their lives outside the rules of the prevailing morality of the times soon became dark and punishing, as there could be no happy endings for those who defied convention. Still, the lesbian titles were enormously popular and soon paperback publishers—beginning with Gold Medal—realized sales would skyrocket if they moved from reprints to “paperback originals.”

This move toward of the publication of original fiction by paperback companies created an immediate and strong demand for writers and provided unprecedented opportunities for women writers in particular. While it is true that some of the lesbian titles during the 1950s were written by men using female pseudonyms, a good number were written by women, many of whom were lesbians themselves. And although they were still required to write within the prescribed moral guidelines set by their editors, quite a few were able to portray the lesbian lives of their characters with a significant degree of honesty and compassion.

For lesbians across the country, especially those living isolated lives in small towns, these books provided a sense of community they never knew existed… a connection to women who experienced the same longings, feelings and fears as they did—the powerful knowledge that they were not alone. With the birth of the lesbian-themed pulp novel, women who loved women could finally see themselves—their experiences and their lives—represented within the pages of a book. They finally had a literature they could call their own.

We are excited to make these wonderful paperback stories… these pulp novels, as they have come to be known, available in ebook format to new generations of readers. We present them in their original form, with very little modification, so as to preserve the tone and atmosphere of the time period. In fact, much of the language—the slang, the colloquialisms, the lingo, even the spellings of some words—appear as they were written fifty or sixty years ago. We hope you will enjoy this nostalgic look back at a period in American history when dames were dangerous, tough-guys were deadly and dolls were downright delicious.

— Kathryn James, Editor

For more classic lesbian pulp ebooks, visit us online at www.vintage-pulp-ebooks.com!

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