It's What Up Front That Counts

by Troy Conway

  “Robbi Randall? The Lady Godiva of stage and screen? How the hell could she persuade a bluenose like Lady Brice-Bennington to even let her in the same room, let alone infiltrate the Friends?”

  “To answer that question I’ll have to tell you a little bit more about Lady Brice-Bennington. Apparently one of the things you don’t know about her is that, before she became The Big Prig she was pretty much of a playgirl herself. To be sure, she wasn’t in the same league as Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies. I doubt that she ever went to bed with a man for money. But she’s had more than a fair share of non-paying lovers. In fact, she once was known as the Prone Joan of Shaftesbury Avenue.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Not really. Scratch a sexual reformer and you often find a former playboy or playgirl. That was true of Mary Magdalen, St. Paul and St. Augustine in Biblical times, it was true of Caesar Augustus and Emperor Constantine in Ancient Rome, and I suspect, though I must admit the evidence is far from irrefutable, that it was true of Queen Victoria and Prime Minister Gladstone in nineteenth-century England. On this side of the Atlantic, there has been—“

  “Okay, okay,” I interrupted, “you’ve made your point: The Big Prig sowed a few wild oats before her nose turned blue. That still doesn’t explain how Robbi Randall was able to infiltrate the Friends of Decency.”

  “Elementary, my dear Damon. If there’s anything a repentant sinner thrives on it’s the recognition of another repentant sinner. All Robbi Randall had to do was present herself to Lady Brice-Bennington, express remorse about the shameful use to which she had permitted her body to be put on stage and in films, and say that she had seen the light. She was welcomed with, to coin a phrase, open arms.”

  “She must have done one hell of an acting job,” I commented.

  “She did. But then, I knew she would. Despite the sensational nature of her film and stage roles thus far, she’s a fine actress, fully deserving of me Oscar which I’m sure she one day will win.”

  “Okay, save the press-agentry. I’ll take your word that she’s another Sarah Bernhardt Now explain why she cold-shouldered me tonight”

  He chuckled. “Well, as I said before, she’s a method actress. Method actresses don’t merely play a part, they live it Robbi presently is living the part of a Friend of Decency.”

  “Does she have to live it twenty-four hours a day—at home as well as abroad?”

  “Some actresses are more methody than others. But if you really want a sample of what she’s like when she steps out of character, I’ll give you one.”

  My smile was more of a smirk. “You’re damn straight I want a sample!” I enthused.

  He pressed a button on his desk, and a buzzer sounded somewhere outside. A few seconds later, Robbi Randall came in.

  I looked.

  And I looked again.

  And because I still could hardly believe my bulging eyes, I looked a third time.

  I had, of course, got a glimpse of Robbi outside the laboratory of the League for Sexual Dynamics and in the Volkswagen on the way to our rendezvous with the van. But the light had been too dim for me to really see very much.

  I also had seen her on the screen. But the wonders of modern cinematic technology notwithstanding, a photographic image is never quite the same as the real thing.

  Now, in Walrus-moustache’s brightly lit mobile field office, I was seeing the real thing—Robbi Randall in the flesh. And I mean in the flesh!

  Her see-through blouse was a see-through to end all see-throughs. It concealed absolutely nothing. Her marvelous breasts jutted out through the gauze-thin cloth in all their can-teloupian splendor. The nipples were big, blood-red and proudly upthrust. They gave way gently to the soft-pink hues of her silver-dollar-sized areolae—two glorious oases of color set against fields of pure alabaster-white, And her breasts really were white; the Albino-fair flesh was untinged by even a ray of sunlight

  Beneath these enormous and perfectly shaped ornaments, her belly was smooth and flat. Her skirt hung low on her hips, and I was able to perceive the exquisite concavities and convexities where her hips and abdomen joined. Unfortunately, I couldn’t view the totality of torso-limb juncture; mini though her miniskirt was, it still was a skirt and not a G-string. But I saw enough to let my imagination fill in what was missing. And what I imagined would have been enough to raise my standard if priapism hadn’t already raised it for me.

  The bottom of her miniskirt fell just a silly millimeter or two below the underslope of her buttocks. Then came her marvelous legs—slender but very shapely, strikingly white and flecked beautifully with tiny blonde strands of soft, short hair. The effect was breathtaking.

  And then there was her face—that perfect face, with the catlike eyes, the tiny nose, the superb jaw and the unbelievably exciting mouth that always seemed ready to break into a big, warm smile. Such—to paraphrase a fellow writer of considerably greater literary renown—is the stuff wet dreams are made on.

  Robbi tossed me a quick dirty look as she entered the room, then stood in front of Walrus-moustache’s desk, She regarded him with an expression of such docility and obedience that I wouldn’t have been surprised if she said, “Sir, you rang?”

  “Robbi,” he told her in a friendly but authoritative voice, “Damon has to be convinced of your acting ability before he leaves for England with you, so I’m going to ask you to let me direct you in a brief improvisational scene.”

  She was looking at him with the intensity of a person who has been hypnotized. Her singularity of focus was so great that she appeared not to have even heard his reference to me. She said nothing and waited for him to continue.

  “The character you’re going to play,” he went on, ’is a twenty-three-year-old girl named Ellen. She’s married to a middle-aged invalid named Max, who hasn’t made love to her since their honeymoon, when he was injured in an automobile accident and became paralyzed from the waist down. She never really loved Max anyway, and married him only because her parents forced her into it. Her real love has always been Jean-Claude, whom she met at a Swiss ski resort when she was nineteen, and for whom she has hungered insatiably ever since.”

  I watched her face as he spelled out the circumstances of the character she was going to play. Subtly—at times, almost imperceptibly—changes came over the beautiful face. She already was getting into the part. Her eyes, her mouth, even her cheeks seemed to me to be the eyes, mouth and cheeks of the unhappy young housewife Walrus-moustache was describing.

  “Twice after her marriage,” he continued, “Ellen met Jean-Claude. The first time was at Geneva, where she had accompanied Max on a visit to a famous neurological clinic. The second time was in New York, where Jean-Claude had come to be interviewed on a TV sports show. Both times Ellen and Jean-Claude made love, and the experience was for her the most glorious experience in her life.”

  On cue, Robbie’s expression became one of near-ecstasy, as if she were mentally reliving the two boudoir episodes of Walrus-moustache’s implausible scenario.

  “Then,” continued The Coxe Foundation’s answer to Elia Kazan, “tragedy struck. You read, Ellen, that Jean-Claude was killed in an avalanche in the Pyrenees, where he was competing in the midwinter Olympics. You were heartbroken. Life lost all meaning to you.”

  Her face quickly reflected heartbreak and the meaningless of life.

  “Then,” said Walrus-moustache, his voice becoming more animated, “you received a phone call ten months later from a physician who was a friend of both you and Jean-Claude and who knew about your affair. I am that physician. When I phoned you, I told you that Jean-Claude was not dead—that, in fact, he was right here in my office, waiting to see you. I asked you to come here as quickly as you possibly could.”

  These new circumstances, like the ones which preceded them, were reflected with incredible believability in her face.

  “Now I want you to go outside and take a minute or two to put yourself in the mood for the scene where you will greet Jean-
Claude, who will be sitting on the couch here”—he gestured toward me—“when you arrive at my office. Your dominant condition before you enter the office will be one of expectancy and yet disbelief; you will have no reason to think that I lied to you, and yet you will be unable to bring yourself to accept that Jean-Claude actually is alive. Then, when you enter the office, you’ll see Jean-Claude. The memories of all your wonderful times together will flash through your mind, and you’ll be overcome with emotion. You’ll throw your arms around him, kiss him, and then, because the scene is improvisational you’ll respond in whatever way you think you should.” He permitted himself a small smile. “Do you have any questions?”

  “No,” she replied quietly.

  “Fine. Then step outside, get into character and come back in to play the scene whenever you’re ready.”

  Not looking at me, she left the room. Walrus-moustache favored me with a grin. “Well, old buddy, here’s your big chance. Just remember that her name is Ellen and try like a bastard to get into the character of a Tristan about to be reunited with his Isolde.”

  “Gotcha, C.B.,” I quipped, eager as all hell to get the show on the road. Actually I’d never considered myself much of an actor, method or otherwise, but I was sure that once I had my arms around Robbi Randall’s sensational superstructure I’d play a Jean-Claude that would put John Gielgud’s Hamlet to shame.

  A minute passed, then another. I sat hunched over on the couch and tried to think the sort of thoughts I imagined Jean-Claude would think. Unfortunately all I could think of was how badly I wanted to give Robbi Randall a dose of the medicine I’m best at dishing out—which didn’t impress me as a very Jean-Claudian thought. But what the hell, even if my performance was lousy I’d still have had a crack at the sex bomb of the seventies who suddenly had become Number One on my Most Wanted Persons list. That was enough for now.

  A third minute passed, then a fourth. Then the door opened, and Robbi stepped hesitantly into the room.

  She glanced at Walrus-moustache, who nodded in my direction. Then she wheeled toward me.

  I stood. “Ellen!” I murmured hoarsely.

  For an instant she was motionless. Her eyes were wide with incredulity, as if she were face-to-face with a ghost. Then, lips quivering, she ran toward me. Her eyes suddenly were brimming with tears. “Jean-Claude!” she gasped. Then, sobbing ecstatically: “Oh, Jean-Claude, Jean-Claude, Jean-Claude!”

  My arms closed around her waist, pulling her body against mine. Her breasts heaved passionately against my chest, and her pelvis pressed hungrily against my manhood. She buried her face in the nape of my neck. I could feel her tears, hot and sticky, against my flesh. “Jean-Claude!” she moaned. “Oh, Jean-Claude!”

  Evidently my potential acting talent was greater than I had expected it would be, because, all of a sudden, I found myself believing I actually was Jean-Claude. “Ellen!” I whispered urgently, and with a trace of French accent. “Ellen! Ellen!”

  She drew back her head and offered me her mouth. I fumblingly covered it with mine. My tongue darted inside, and she sucked on it feverishly. At the same time, her breasts and pelvis pressed even harder against me.

  I don’t know what the real Jean-Claude would have done at this point. But the Damon version of Jean-Claude suddenly became an unleashed bull-in-heat. I pulled her down onto the couch with me, still kissing her, and cupped one of those fantastic breasts in my hand. Simultaneously, my knees maneuvered into place between her legs, wedging them open, and my free hand began stroking the firm, sexy flesh of her thigh.

  “Ellen!” I groaned, trying to keep the French accent, but suspecting that I was failing. “Let’s not waste another moment! Let’s make love!”

  If it bothered her that I was slipping out of character, she didn’t show it. Still sucking feverishly at my tongue, she spread her thighs wider. At the same time, her fingers went to work on my fly.

  My hand found its way to her womanhood. I caressed her through her panties for a moment, then eased my fingers through one of the panty-legs and invaded her quivering cleft. She writhed ecstatically beneath me, all the while continuing to murmur, “Jean-Claude! Jean-Claude! Jean-Claude!”

  I eased the waistband of her panties over her hips. She shifted her weight to make things easier for me, and I very rapidly slid the panties midway down her thighs. By this time, she had also managed to release my manhood from the prison of my jockey shorts. She clutched its nakedness with a desperateness that made me thirst for her all the more.

  I couldn’t get her panties all the way off without moving out from between her legs, so I shifted my position and lay alongside her on the couch. She raised her knees and brought her legs together. I quickly disposed of the panties, and used my free hand to tug my trousers open.

  The panties now off, she spread her thighs again. The hem of her mini was hiked way up over her hips, and the splendor of her blonde Mound of Venus beckoned me. I answered the call. My fingers clutched at her superb buttocks as my tongue discovered the sweetness of her love-channel.

  Her legs were over my shoulders; her thighs were squeezing lovingly against the sides of my face. Her hips rocked back and forth in response to the thrusts of my tongue. Her whole body seemed to be shaking with excitement.

  “Jean-Claude!” she sighed. “Oh, Jean-Claude!” Then, after a moment: “Darling, take me! Oh, please take me!”

  I didn’t need a second invitation. Quicker than a flash, I bobbed up from my prone position and threw myself on top of her. As part of the same movement, I shimmied my trousers and shorts down to my knees, maneuvered my knees into place between her thighs, and covered her mouth with mine.

  “Cut!” cried a voice somewhere outside the range of my immediate interests.

  I ignored it and manipulated my sword into position for the stab that really grabs.

  “Cut!” cried the voice again.

  I still refused to pay attention to it, but suddenly my sword was without a scabbard. Beautiful, love-hungry, devoted Ellen had become Robbi Randall again, and she was struggling to get out from under me.

  “Cut, Damon!” repeated the voice as a pair of surprisingly strong hands tugged at my shoulders. “Cut! The scene is over! Cut!”

  With Walrus-moustache’s help, Robbi managed to slither off the couch. Seizing up her panties, she retreated to a post in front of his desk. I fought him a moment, then realizing that it was futile to fight, flopped over on my back. “If I ever find a voodoo doll that looks like you,” I told him, “I’m going to stick every pin I can find into it.”

  Ignoring the comment, he told Robbi that she could leave the room. Then he ambled back to his seat and refilled his glass with Johnnie Walker Black.

  Dejectedly, I pulled my pants back on. “You’re a real buddy, you walrus-moustached son of a bitch,” I grunted. “You’re a buddy and a half.”

  He smiled brightly. “Cheer up, Damon. You can always do Take Two after your mission is completed. Meanwhile, be thankful for small favors. If I wanted to, I could’ve called ‘Cut’ a lot sooner than I did.”

  I buckled my belt and slouched down in my seat. “You also could’ve let us go the full route. She certainly was ready.”

  His smile broadened. “And she’ll be ready again once the mission is over. Now, speaking of the mission, let’s speak some more about the mission, okay?”

  It’s a wise general who knows when to retreat. “Go ahead,” I growled. “Speak away.”

  He sipped his drink. “All right, if you insist. As I was saying before we got sidetracked, Robbi Randall persuaded Lady Brice-Bennington to accept her as a repentant sinner, and promptly was welcomed with open arms into the Friends of Decency. For the next several months, she worked actively on behalf of the Friends—typing letters of protest to newspaper editors about erotic books which were circulating in London, recording antisexual speeches to be broadcast by radio stations sympathetic to the Friends’ cause, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. At the same time, she kept her ey
es and ears open, and reported to The Coxe Foundation regularly on the comings and goings of Lady Brice-Bennington and her fellow-travelers. We have three entire filing cabinets chock-full of her reports.”

  “What do they reveal?”

  “Unfortunately nothing that we didn’t know already. We now have millions of words describing the activities of the Friends of Decency, but not one word which in any way connects The Big Prig or any of her Friends with Andi Gleason, Diane Dionne or the Communists’s British spy network. That, dear Damon, is why we called upon you. We feel that Robbi Randall, because of the nature of her cover-role as an enthusiastic member of the Friends, is not really in a position to explore the channels which you, in the cover-role of a Doubting Thomas, might explore. So we’re going to send you to London to conduct a survey in cooperation with the Friends of Decency, and we’re hoping that you’ll be able to come up with some of the answers that Robbi Randall couldn’t come up with—all the while managing concurrently to spirit Andi Gleason and Diane Dionne out of the country, and finding out precisely what if anything the Commies know about the B-bomb.”

  I frowned. “What makes you think that the Friends will want to cooperate with me in this proposed survey?”

  He smiled. “I said before that if there’s anything a repentant sinner thrives on it’s the recognition of another repentant sinner. I might have added that there’s one thing most repentant sinners thrive on even more—namely, the prospects of winning a convert. And, of course, the more notorious a sinner the prospective convert is, the better the repentant sinner likes it.”