Naked Came the Stranger

by Penelope Ashe

“But I’ll take it off,” she said.

  With her right hand she ran down the zipper and in one motion, it seemed, she pulled the dress over her head. She stood before him in a half slip and a bra. Now, looking at him, she unhooked the bra, bringing it free in her hand, standing erect, her breasts not large, but firm and white and straight out.

  “Why don’t you loosen your tie, Taylor?”

  Taylor stopped staring and pulled at his tie as she walked across the room. She stopped beside the Baron’s glass-topped desk, and on the desk she laid her dress, smoothing it out full length. She put the bra on top of the dress. And then the half slip. She was standing nude when she picked up the twin pictures in the single frame.

  “This is the Baron,” she said, “and your wife?”

  “Yes,” Taylor said. “Yes.”

  Gillian put the pictures back on the desk, placing them at an angle that left the Baron and Taylor’s wife looking out across the room. Looking out at Gillian and Taylor.

  “Taylor,” she said, “do you love your wife?”

  “Good God, Gillian, how do I know?”

  He was undressed now. And he was moving across the room to her, sucking in his stomach and wishing he still had the old suntan. Gillian wasn’t even looking at him.

  “And this is the Baron’s … what did you call it?… business wheelchair? The fast one?” Naked, she stood as easily as if she were in Lord and Taylor’s at 11:30 in the morning, trying on a new dress. She picked her bra from the desk and hung it across the left shoulder of the Baron’s fast wheelchair. “Wear it with honor,” she said.

  “Don’t forget that goddam thing,” Taylor said, “and leave it hanging there.”

  “Taylor, are you afraid of the Baron?”

  “Ah, hell, Gillian, just remember to get the thing. I’ve got to be back here in the morning to explain something the Baron’ll be madder’n hell about, and it’s going to be bad enough without a goddam brassiere hanging on his fast wheelchair.”

  Gillian picked her panties from the desk and hung them on the right shoulder of the wheelchair. Taylor caught her from the side and pulled her around, feeling her body against his. Walking her backward, he moved her in front of him. “If you’re so interested in the Baron’s chair, Gillian, I’ll show you something else.” With three steps, he maneuvered her and then pressed her over and came down on top of her, feeling her legs come up.

  “This is the Baron’s vibrating chair,” he said. “When he’s not sitting in that goddam fast wheelchair, he sits in this one and … vibrates.”

  It was also a reclining chair, tufted brown, with a footrest, and Taylor dug at Gillian’s breasts with his face and mouth.

  “Start it up,” Gillian said.

  “Godawmighty,” Taylor said. “Are you talking about the chair?”

  “If it vibrates, then start it,” she said. “Or do you want me to get up and do it?”

  Taylor leaned over the side, feeling for the buttons and gears. With his right hand, he pushed a lever and he felt them start, he and Gillian and the tiny wire-nerves in the chair that made it vibrate. And he was inside of Gillian, too, now, warm. And it was Gillian and he and the tiny wire-nerves and he and Gillian and Gillian and the tiny wire nerves and he and Gillian and he and he and he and Gillian and He and He and GILLIAN and HE and GILLIAN and HE … and HE.… and he … and he and Gillian … and gillian. And gillian.

  The chair, its fabric crinkly against Taylor’s side as he rolled over, was still vibrating. He reached over, feeling for the lever.

  “Leave it alone,” Gillian said quietly. “It feels good.”

  As they lay there, with the left side of Taylor’s body against Gillian, he could feel the vibrations of the tiny wire-nerves. On his right side, the vibrations were direct. On his left, coming first through Gillian, they were soft.

  “You’re good, Taylor,” she said. Gillian realized, with a start, that it was the first sincere compliment she had paid a man since the beginning. She was quiet, reflective, the lines on her face easy. “Did you like me?”

  “Damn knows,” Taylor said. “You’re something else, Gillian. How do I tell you? How do you describe it?”

  Unconsciously, his hand went toward his chest for a cigarette and then over the arm of the chair, as if he were reaching out toward the lamp table at home, the lamp table that separated Sarah’s bed from his own.

  “Why do men want to smoke afterward?” Gillian said.

  “I don’t know,” Taylor said. “But you sure to God do. I guess if you didn’t smoke, you wouldn’t want to. But if you smoke, you sure to God want to.”

  Taylor got up, going across to his coat to get a cigarette, and wondering how he looked to her from the back, naked. He brought her a cigarette, too, and they lay there together in the vibrating chair, smoking and not talking.

  Lightly, Gillian kissed Taylor on the neck and then on his chest.

  “You’re good, Taylor.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Taylor said. “I’ve never felt so good in this office, not in the past fourteen years.”

  Again Gillian kissed Taylor on the chest and then, pushing with her hands, she was standing, walking toward her clothes. Taylor followed her. On the desk he could see the pictures of his wife and the Baron, both watching him, and they both seemed angry. He wondered how they liked him naked.

  Gillian picked her bra from the left shoulder of the Baron’s wheelchair, started to stretch her arms through the straps, but Taylor pulled her to him. She held the bra now in her right hand and, as her arms went around him, Taylor felt the bra skid once, gently, against his back as it slipped to the floor. Carefully, he lowered her back into the wheelchair.

  With Gillian’s arms around him, her body there just below him, Taylor Hawkes spun the wheelchair away from the wall. In the open room, on the deep green carpet, he gave a push with his foot and tried to jump aboard, as he’d jumped as a child on a rolling scooter.

  “The old sonofabitch,” he said.

  They hit the brown leather couch and came to a stop there.

  “My God, Taylor!”

  He came down on her, pressing her legs apart, against the arms of the chair, and feeling his knees driving against the wheels. Almost. His knees off the wheels, closer, and he was there now, there, but they were rolling again.

  “Goddam!”

  “Make it stop rolling, Taylor!”

  With his foot, he drove the chair into the angle between the couch and the wall and lunged. “Taylor! Oh, Taylor!” Gently, rhythmically, the chair skidded, forward, backward, gently, rhythmically.

  Taylor heard it, didn’t hear it, thought he heard it, thought he didn’t hear it—the click of the lock at his back. The click of the lock and no other sound as the rubber tires of another wheelchair moved silently across the deep green carpet. Glancing up, Taylor saw him, saw the Baron, rolling toward them. And now braking.

  “Well, Taylor.” The Baron.

  “God, Taylor, don’t stop!” Gillian.

  And now all of them, the three of them!

  “Taylor! Taylor!” This was Gillian.

  “Dammit, Taylor, if you break my chair …”

  “Now, Gillian! NOW! Gillian, oh, Gillian!”

  For a moment Taylor lay there. And then, slowly, they rose from the wheelchair, he and Gillian.

  She made no effort to hurry or to cover herself. She walked to the spot where she had dropped her bra on the floor and bent to pick it up. The Baron, in his black suit, with his round, silver head cocked slightly, turned the chair an inch or two, Taylor thought, to watch her walk.

  And then the chair and the black suit and the round silver head were directed again at Taylor.

  “In a wheelchair,” the Baron said softly. “That’s something, Taylor.” He rolled his own chair six inches backward and six inches forward. “Well, Taylor, you won’t have to explain the Honest ad tomorrow. I’ll mail you your check.” His voice was still even, quiet. “And I’ll have a car pick up Sarah tonight.
”

  “Baron,” Taylor began, “if you.…”

  “Good evening, Taylor.” The Baron was starting to roll. Then he paused, a last look at Gillian. She had picked up the bra but she hadn’t put it on. In her right hand, it swung at her knees.

  “You have a fine body, young lady,” the Baron said.

  “Thank you, Baron Morgan,” Gillian Blake replied. Stretching, she put her arms through the brassiere straps. The Baron made no effort to leave. “You don’t live in King’s Neck, dc you, Baron?”

  “Old Brookville,” he said.

  “Too bad,” Gillian said. “I was going to ask why don’t you roll over and see me sometime.”

  EXCERPT FROM “THE BILLY & GILLY SHOW,” MARCH 14TH

  Gilly: Did you ever stop to realize how everything has become sexier these days, Billy? You know, movies, books, magazines.

  Billy: I know what you mean. And without being a prude, I think it’s something we have to watch carefully. Because in some cases, it borders on, well, smut.

  Gilly: Exactly.

  ANSEL VARTH

  ANSEL VARTH walked as though he should have had a staff in his hand and a tribe of Israelites trailing him. It was, Gilly thought, bizarre in a man in his early thirties. There was a grotesque quality about him that had aroused Gilly’s curiosity—and, concomitantly, her libido. She needed something different. Ernie Miklos’s ice cubes, Paddy Madigan’s mini-member, Arthur Franhop’s aberrant innocence, Joshua Turnbull’s flying leap—all these encounters had left Gilly jaded. She was looking for a pick-me-up.

  She had noticed Ansel Varth about the streets of King’s Neck. She had seen him standing beside the gasoline pump in the Shell station, seemingly absorbed in the roll of the high-test meter. She had glimpsed him leaving his home on Frigate Lane with his plump little wife beside him. And she had seen him sometimes at the post office. She had heard that Varth was an accountant who worked out of his home, and he apparently conducted much of his business by mail. It was at the post office that Varth was at his most grotesque. When he approached the slots, he had the furtive quality of a small boy who had dirtied himself and had decided to brazen it out by walking as if the lump in his trousers did not exist.

  They reached the slots at the same time, and Gilly made contact. “Excuse me,” she said, brushing against him. “I want to send this to Manhattan. Do I use the out-of-town slot, or the local slot?”

  “The out-of-town slot,” Varth answered, speaking with the careful enunciation of a second-rate comedian attempting to imitate a Harvard homosexual. “The out-of-town slot is for all mail not to be delivered within the unincorporated area of King’s Neck. Any mail that is to be delivered within King’s Neck goes into the local slot. I usually use the out-of-town slot.”

  Bingo! The voice was unmistakable. There was simply no question about it. Gillian knew immediately where she had heard it before. Gotcha you bastard, she thought. Then she started laughing. Of all people, she thought, Ansel Varth. Why he even wore a homburg.

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” she said. “I never thought it would be you.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Varth said.

  “Come on, you know who I am. I’m Gillian Blake. God knows you’ve spoken to me enough times.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mrs. Blake. I’m Ansel Varth from Frigate Lane.”

  Gillian stared at Varth and trapped his eyes. She smiled her sweetest smile. “Oh, we’ve had the pleasure,” she said. “I’ve got a pair of big ones, and you’re Jack the Fucker.”

  Varth’s mail bag plopped to the floor. He looked as if he were going to cry.

  “What was it you told me the last time you called?” said Gilly. “Oh yes, you came to a point. And you said I was a whore.”

  Now Varth looked as if he might be sick.

  “Don’t worry,” Gillian said. “It was kind of nice, having a crank caller, all my own. Besides, you’ve heard of Madame Pompadour. Well, I’m her cousin, Lady Asshole.”

  “Please …,” said Varth.

  “Don’t worry,” she said.

  “You mean you’re not.…”

  “No,” said Gillian. “Actually, it interests me.”

  Ansel Varth took off his eyeglasses. “Holy shit!” he said.

  “That’s better,” Gilly said. “Why didn’t you tell me it was you making all those phone calls? We would have met long before this.”

  “Son of a bitch!” said Varth.

  Varth hastily stuffed his mail into the slots, and asked if they could go somewhere. Gillian suggested a motel. She was having a marvelous time. Ansel Varth might be just the tonic she was looking for. She was going to have this coitus-crazed accountant make an entry. Maybe even a double entry.

  Varth loosened up during the drive to the motel. He was still talking as they entered the room. His conversation was full of words like cunt and snatch. Gilly was enchanted. Nobody had ever talked dirty that way to her before.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said. “You certainly don’t sound like an accountant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you can enunciate like one, but you’ll have to admit that your conversation isn’t what you’d expect from an accountant.”

  “What do I sound like?” he asked.

  Gillian laughed. “Like a crank-caller,” she said. “Or like someone who writes dirty books.”

  Varth, who had just shucked off his topcoat, dropped on the bed and stared at her.

  “Cocksucker!”

  “What’s the matter?” she said.

  “You’re fantastic. You must be psychic or something.”

  “I don’t understand you, lover.”

  “Well that’s what I do, don’t you see?”

  “I’m afraid you’re losing me.”

  “That’s what I do. I write dirty books.”

  “You what!”

  “I write dirty books! I mean, that’s it. That’s how I really make a living.”

  Now it was Gillian’s turn to drop to the bed. “You’re putting me on.”

  “No, no. Honestly. I really do.”

  “Son of a bitch!” This time it was Gillian. She shook her head. She had the look of a woman whose bra had just been snapped open. What a tonic, she thought.

  Gillian had never met a professional pornographer before, and she questioned Varth almost as if she were doing an interview. For his part, Varth seemed genuinely relieved that somebody knew his secret. For the first time in his life, he was telling a stranger about his hidden life, and his voice filled with pride. “No one suspects,” he said. “No one. Not even that idiotic wife of mine. She really thinks I’m an accountant, that I take care of all my work through the mails. Actually, I haven’t been an accountant for years. I don’t keep books. I write them.”

  Gilly sat close to him and nibbled his ear. “An honest-to-goodness pornographer,” she said.

  Ansel Varth shrugged with pride. “The best in the business,” he said.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Gillian. “Listen, you’ll have to autograph one of your books for me.”

  “Certainly,” said Varth. “With my prick.”

  Gillian laughed. “Beautiful,” she said.

  “You’re some piece of ass,” Varth said, as he watched Gilly’s blouse come off.

  “It must be fascinating work,” Gillian said, slipping unconsciously into her radio style. “I mean, where do you get all your ideas?”

  “Nature,” said Varth. “From nature. Like any other writer, I draw from the human condition.”

  “I should have guessed,” Gilly said.

  “My pen never runs dry,” said Varth.

  “I can imagine,” said Gilly. “But what started you? I mean, what was the catalyst?”

  “An interesting question,” said Varth. “I would have to say that it was my wife.”

  “Your wife?” said Gillian, as she took off her skirt.

  “Yes. See, when I first married A
strid, that’s my wife, I was in the Navy, and I used to bang the hell out of her when I was home on leave. And when I first got out of the service, she still gave me all I wanted. We even did it in a night club once, with her sitting on my lap. You know, in rhythm to the music—as I remember, it was a rhumba. Another time we did it in a rocking chair, and once we even did it in a snowbank.”

  “Mmmm,” said Gilly. “All I’ve ever done in the snow is ski.”

  “You didn’t have the right poles,” said Varth.

  “But I still don’t see how your wife inspired your career,” said Gilly.

  “Oh, yes. Well, the thing was that, after a few years, she started turning me off. I guess she never really liked it that much, if you know what I mean. And when she did screw, she was like a cold clam. It was like playing with myself. In fact, I did start playing with myself, and that was better than Astrid. That’s when I wrote my first dirty poetry. It was a four-line poem that went: ‘I don’t care if I go crazy/ long as I can beat my daisy/ four times eight is thirty-two/ three more pulls and I’ll be through.’”

  “That’s got a nice rhythm,” said Gilly.

  “Yes,” said Varth. “It’s a beater’s meter. But that still didn’t satisfy me. As a matter of fact, I never was really satisfied. The thing is that even when I was banging Astrid all the time, I wasn’t necessarily enjoying it that much. Before Astrid, there were just a Negro woman in Port-au-Prince who looked at me as if I were a flea, and an old lady in a West Side hotel who had a breast missing. And I guess you would have to count Mr. Bagadello, my home room teacher in junior high school.”

  “Yes,” said Gilly. “I think early sex experiences are especially rewarding.”

  “It’s amazing how you understand these things,” said Varth. “Well, to keep from drawing it out, I became bored with masturbation. And I found that I had become quite shy in terms of personal contact. I was all right on the telephone, but I never really did anything. Anyway, I started writing stories for kicks. Then I got the idea of selling them. I put ads in the right magazines, and began building up a mailing list. One thing led to another, and I met Solly Madchen.”

  Gillian had hooked a hand under Varth’s trouser cuff and was caressing his left calf. My God, she thought, he wears garters. Then the name brought her up short.