MR. BOOKMAN:
Still, I must refuse, even if it means accepting the consequences.
COUNSEL KENNEDY:
Mr. Bookman, please consider carefully the implications of your lack of cooperation. If we cite you for Contempt of Congress, you may face a prison sentence, and your future employment prospects will suffer irrevocable damage. Do you still refuse to name names?
MR. BOOKMAN:
I repeat, I will not purchase my own freedom at the cost of destroying other people's lives.
June 11, 1938
The man in the ill-fitting corduroy suit standing up front was trying to call the meeting to order despite the noise of the crowd milling in the room. Ron Bookman had somehow contrived to find a vacant chair next to a tall, well-groomed brunette in her early 20's. She turned toward him, smiled briefly, and offered a cheek for a perfunctory kiss.
"I didn't expect to see you of all people here, Ronnie. Not after the executive board denounced you for deviationist tendencies, not to mention disloyalty. You're about as non grata here as a persona can be."
"Claudie, you know my feelings for you have nothing to do with whatever I may think of the Party. Damn it all, we've been as close as it's possible for two human beings to be. We've touched, we've joined. I've felt the heat of your passion. I felt your body embrace mine in the most intimate way possible! Doesn't that mean anything now? Damn it, woman, are you made of stone?"
She took both his hands and inclined her head toward his. "Ronnie, Ronnie. Human feelings pale in comparison to the tide of history. At this very moment, unemployed workers are marching in the streets of this country, the bastion of capitalism itself. Fascism is on the rise all over Europe. In the turmoil, the survival of the Workers' State and even Marxism itself is doubt. At a time like this how can you entertain such bourgeois fantasies as romantic love?"
"So, Claud, nothing we did before matters? I wasted my time sneaking in here to see you? I risked being beaten and thrown out for nothing?"
"Oh, Ron. I did and do have strong feelings for you. But don't you understand that my feelings don't matter? Only the Movement does. Only that. We're caught up in something immeasurably greater than sex and lust or even love. Damn, damn, DAMN. . . . Well, the least I can do is give you a grand sendoff. And seeing you, talking to you like this does seem to have aroused certain biological needs in me. What do you say we find a private place for one final little tryst?"
It was cramped in there. A ladies room stall wasn't really designed for two people. With the door latched, there was hardly standing room for the both of them. Ron just did manage to pull down his pants and sit down on the toilet. Claudia turned so she was facing away from him and hiked up her skirt. She had already retrieved a small glass bottle out of her purse and now she dabbed a rather large glob of Vaseline on her anal opening. Laboriously, she maneuvered her way backward onto his lap, gradually impaling herself on his hard penis. This was the just way she liked it -- getting sodomized in a public place, with the danger of discovery adding spice to the proceedings.
They had discovered it quite by accident. He'd had trouble bringing her to orgasm with vaginal intercourse, even in conjunction with protracted clitoral stimulation. Then, one night when they were both a bit drunk and in the throes of a reckless, sloppy passion, he had accidentally slipped into the wrong hole. She had spontaneously gone into massive convulsions of intense, almost unbearable rapture. Her orgasm was immediate, and it almost exploded the top of her head off. It was the hottest sex she had ever experienced.
Balancing herself with the balls of her feet on the ground and the palms of her hands pressing backwards into his thighs, she rode up and down his shaft, jamming it deeply into her bowels, then slowly sliding it out again. After a few minutes of this, she let her full weight down on his groin and leaned backwards slightly for maximum penetration. The pressure and friction against the thin wall separating her rectum from the vagina set her off. And again. She wiggled her hips and groaned softly with the rippling aftershocks.
The restroom door hissed open and there was the shrill, high-pitched sound of feminine voices. A couple of women had come in to do their business.
"Oh, shit! They'll see your bony ankles and Florsheims under the door of the damn stall," she hoarsely whispered as she unpronged herself and staggered upright.
With near-incredible contortions, they managed to quickly exchange positions -- he on her lap facing forward, she supporting his legs from underneath, which he propped partway up on the door of the stall. It was highly uncomfortable for both of them, but at least it would keep two pairs of legs from being seen under the stall.
The women took their jolly old time emptying their bladders, fixing up their faces, and jabbering about nothing of much consequence. After what must have been a half hour, they finally left . . . and as Ron and Claudia began struggling to disentangle, there were other voices and sounds and the door opened once more.
With Ron still on her lap and the restroom occupied by what sounded like half a dozen ladies tending to various bodily functions, Claudia began to get twinges, then increasingly painful cramps. This was what sometimes hit after a lively bout of anal sex. She felt, then heard the first of several explosive bursts of diarrhea rip through her and splatter into the water of the porcelain bowl beneath her bare bottom. The good news was that the toilet lid was already up and so was her skirt. The bad news was that Ron was literally right on top of her, involuntarily grinding his bare buttocks into her groin. Meanwhile, women came and went. And came and went.
Later, much later, Ron managed to escape out of the stall and out of the restroom without being observed. Claudia stayed behind; she was taking her own good time cleaning herself. He wondered if he'd ever be able to dispell the memory of that infernal stench. Nothing like smelling the contents of your lover's colon at point-blank range to put the kibosh on any bourgeois illusions of romantic love . . .
It was fourteen years before he saw her again.
MR. BOOKMAN:
I repeat, I will not purchase my own freedom at the cost of destroying other people's lives. (Oh, Claudia, I'll endure prison, and worse, rather than betray you.)
"Hello? Hello, Claudia? It's Ron . . . Ron Bookman."
"Ron!"
"It wasn't easy finding you, Claud, much less getting up the courage to call. I had to, though."
"Ron, Ron. I'm sorry for all the pain I caused you . . . for all the pain we caused each other . . . so many years ago."
"What's past is past. I didn't call you to unearth old corpses."
"I had certain feelings for you once, Ron. There's not much left of that after all this time. We've both picked up and gone on with our lives."
"Haven't we though, Claud. And I understand you've done quite well for youself."
"Yes, I've been Jack Kennedy's private secretary for the last several years. Since his election to the Senate last fall, actually, and that seems to have put me right square in the center of the political scene."
"Exactly. And that's why I contacted you -- to warn you. You see, I'm testifying before Joe McCarthy's subcommittee, coerced under subpoena, of course. I've been under some fairly heavy pressure to name names, but I haven't, and I won't. But if they managed to track me down, that means the hounds may come sniffing around you too."
"I thank you for your concern, Ron. Believe me, though, I've got some pretty powerful protection."
A few days later, Claudia joined him for a drink "for old times' sake" in the Power Broker Cocktail Lounge at his hotel.
"You look remarkably well, Ron. A little the worse for wear, but under the circumstances that's understandable. I do believe you've finally grown up."
"Thank you, Claudia. You, too, have finally come into full bloom. You've put on weight in the right places, and it suits you well. Your hair is beginning to gray and if you're showing a wrinkle or two, even that enhances your appeal. You're a magnificent woman, and I can understand why Jack is so smitten."
&n
bsp; She smiled ironically and handed him a sealed manila clasp envelope.
"What's this now?"
"It's a Christmas present to you from the Senator. Open it."
He did. Inside was a note saying, "Any friend of Claudia's is a friend of mine." Clipped to it was a yellow cardboard "Get Out of Jail Free" card from a Monopoly game. Underneath lay a large glossy closeup of the man most feared by crooks and politicians alike for the last three decades. The reigning head of the FBI. In drag.
SINISTER BEND
This is a story of how two people lost their virginity. And how it plunged the nation into the gravest crisis in its history.
bend sinister: A heraldic device consisting of a bar slanting obliquely from the top left of the escutcheon to the bottom right. The implication is of a birth "on the wrong side of the blanket" somewhere in the line of descent.
Morris:
1955 the year was. It was late August and the Yankees looked like a sure bet to regain the pennant. The 283 Chevy V8 ruled the streets. Rock and roll music was starting to rule the airwaves. I had just turned 18 and was still a virgin, not that I lost much sleep over it.
My parents were in the habit of spending their annual two-week vacation at a resort in the Adirondacks, about a three hour ride from their Riverside Drive apartment in Manhattan. As a newly-minted adult, I finally impressed them as mature enough to come along. I thought this a considerable improvement over past years of having to board at my aunt's, with bratty little kids underfoot and nothing much to do. And my mother, at least, had great hopes of finally getting my nose out of my books.
There wasn't much traffic on Route 9 the morning we left. The sun was just starting to come over the horizon on my right, as I sat in the back seat with my nose in a book, naturally.
"Morris, pay attention to me. You'll have the chance to meet girls up there at Schwanger's. Nice girls. They have dances nightly, and the other social activities -- "
"Quiet, Ruth. Kindly let me concentrate on my driving." That was my father. "You'll make the both of us crazy with this constant pounding into his head about girls and social life. If Morrie wants to read and be by himself, let him. He's a college boy. When he's already a doctor or a lawyer, that'll be time enough for girls."
Dad would take up for me after mother's nagging reached a certain threshold. Maybe he was grateful for my company. Maybe he was finally starting to respect me as an adult.
***
Jo:
1955 the year was. The leaves were just a few weeks short of turning colors and the Dodgers were still going strong. Designers in Dearborn, Michigan, dreamed about tailfins and double headlights. A young guitar strummer and hip swinger was starting his career down Memphis way. Not that I much cared about baseball and cars and rock and roll. I was an old maid. I had turned 43 a couple of months back and was still a virgin.
The management of Schwanger's Resort had just promoted me to Director of Administration. It was a darn good job for a woman and I was darn good at my job, efficient at handling mountains of paperwork. Good old steady and reliable Josie Carpenter. Dull and boring, perhaps, but morally upright, never taking a risk, never a wrong step, always predictable. "Holy Jo" they called me behind my back, never dreaming that dark undercurrents roiled my emotions and disturbed my sleep.
My parents had brought me up to be virtuous and respectable, and I hadn't disappointed them. Oh, there had been temptations now and then, like the time I almost got engaged to that handsome seminary student back before the war. When we had kissed I felt all soft and squishy inside. But then came the guilt and I couldn't go any farther. I was still curious though. Curious about these feelings that still swept over me, now and again. Curious about the heat that burned within me. Curious about what they call "the facts of life." Curious about the details. No one had ever explained to me exactly how babies are conceived.
***
Morris:
Festoons of multicolored crepe streamers and bunting hung from the rafters of the rec hall. The band was limping through an unconvincing imitation of a samba. They couldn't just call it something straightforward, like a First Night Welcoming Dance. No, it had to be "Mardi Gras & Rio Carneval All-In-One Super Extravaganza." The spiked punch hadn't yet produced a noticeable effect, and couples were milling around in clumps on the dance floor, talking and laughing. I was sitting in a far corner with my nose in a book, naturally.
"Whatcha readin' kiddo?" It was a skinny young woman about my age, her hair done up in ringlets, loudly chewing gum.
"Nabokov's Bend Sinister. It's about -- "
"Never hoid of a Nobby Cop. Not too much interested in books, anyway. Ain't read none since I got outta school, and din't much read even before. 'Classics Illustrated,' ya know. You're cute, though. Wanna dance?"
I knew all too well. Many of my classmates assiduously read 'Classics Illustrated' comics to avoid having to read the actual classics. It was good enough for book reports, sure, but you didn't get any of the flavor of the literature, and no, I didn't especially wanna dance or wanna do anything else with this second-rate impersonation of a human being.
"You're charming and I'd love to dance, but . . . injuries sustained falling off the scaffolding while washing windows on the 80th story of the Empire State Building are still in the process of healing. Internal bleeding, uncontrollable diarrhea and all that stuff. You know. Try me again in six months."
I didn't think she'd get back to me, in six months or in six years. I inserted my nose back into the book.
About an hour later, there was a tap on my shoulder. My mother was standing there beaming, with a lady about her age who had a younger woman in tow. "Morris, I'd like to introduce you to my new friend, Mrs. Rosner, and her daughter Marlene." Then a whisper into my ear: "Stand up, you klutz. Her father owns a dozen meat processing plants. At least try to make nice."
And so it went for a couple of hours. I finally got disgusted enough to leave. No one noticed, or maybe no one cared enough to notice. I sat a while outside our cabin trying to concentrate on the book, then finally gave up and went in and crawled under the covers.
***
Jo:
Dr. Hoggenberg has taken an interest in me. We talked for hours last night. Hoggy's a liver specialist who's taking a long-overdue vacation here at the resort with his wife. His wife, whom he doesn't love, and with whom he hasn't taken fleshly pleasures in years. I've become a sort of confidante for him, someone he can unburden his soul to. Last night as we said goodbye, he kissed me. Me, a middle-aged spinster. On the lips.
This morning, I was wet down there as I awakened. I had dreamed about him, and I vaguely remembered waves of heat and cold washing over me. I wanted him next to me, in the circle of my arms, pressed to me, and in some indefinable way, inside me. I don't understand. I've never had feelings like that before. I'm afraid. I'm lonely. I'm curious.
***
Morris:
I finally got around to the books I'd hidden in my suitcase. Under my dress shirts. Wrapped in butcher paper. Books I'd found in a grubby little shop on Canal Street, in between the shops on "Electronic Row."
I put a 45 on the portable record player, the better to read by. The band my mom called "Bill Haley and the Vomits." The kind of music that gave her a fit. "Crazy music like that makes people do crazy things. Like that Elvin Pressler meshuggener who sings no better than a hound dog. He should only suffer a heartbreak in his hotel room. Mark my words, he'll end up breaking rocks in a jailhouse." And on and on. As if rock and roll could corrupt a nice, respectable person like me.
To the beat of "Rock Around the Clock," I'm lovingly unwrapping the bundle. "Studies on the Psychology of Sex," by Havelock Ellis and "Love Without Fear," by Dr. Eustace Chesser. They're a bit sketchy on detail, but they've inflamed my imagination. Right about now, I'm thinking that I maybe shouldn't have been so nasty to Marlene. The things we could have done. The things I could have discovered about female anatomy! The explosive heat of connecting physically
with a woman's . . . Darn it, even that moron in spit curls had possibilities.
***
Jo:
I love him! I hate him!
We took a long walk together after supper. There was a cool breeze rustling the leaves as the evening sky gradually turned crimson. He walked silently beside me for some minutes, then shook his fists at the sky. Hoggie began telling me how lonely he's been and how his physical needs have been tormenting him. I impulsively put my arms around him and squeezed. I was trying to give him comfort, and it warmed me as well. He put his head on my breasts and cried. This started me crying too.
I suddenly tensed up. One of his hands had crept around and was cupping the cheek of my behind. What was he doing? I didn't know whether to slap him for taking liberties or to hug him more tightly. Conflicting emotions tore me in half.
The Syntax of Seduction Page 16