The Big Broad Jump

by Troy Conway

  Katie gave the performance of her newly discovered sexual life. She hung on, gave as good as she got and even added a few virtuoso licks and flourishes to the occasion. In a fast and furious fusion that lasted another half-hour longer, our pas de deux ended with both of us locked in a very artistic French pretzel. The Betchnikian women couldn’t help themselves. One by one they applauded. Softly and with great reverence and affection.

  The orgy was done.

  And the next thing on the agenda was to clear out of the Firnl Lab in a hurry. So everybody got dressed, all nice and gussied again, and we marched toward the locked door. Katie was humming again. And her arm was linked in mine. The five maids were all hushed and quiet. Deep calm had settled over them. So it was a nice orderly retreat, all in all.

  In the corridor, the women marched ahead of us and waved before they disappeared through the front door. I had timed it just right For Gekko and Orkoff were coming down the hall, still like frightened school children, anxious to make amends with teacher.

  “Commissar,” Gekko mumbled. “We are working on the report and will have it ready by tonight for mailing.”

  “Good, good.” I decided to be big about it. I clapped Gekko and Orkoff on their backs and nearly caved them in. “Be of good cheer, gentlemen. Moscow will find some other use for your services. When I make my oral report to the Kremlin, I shall speak highly of your cooperation. My word on that.”

  The sun came up in both their faces. Their beards seemed to gleam with happiness. Siberia vanished from their considerations.

  “Would you?” they chorused. “That is good of you, Commissar!”

  “Tut,” I said. “It is nothing. I, Damonski, am a fair man if I am nothing. Good day, gentlemen. Comrade Katrina will drive me to the border where I shall meet my special car. Hail and farewell!”

  “Hail!” said Gekko.

  “And farewell!” bleated Orkoff. Katie stuck her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  We turned our backs on them and walked through the front doors of the Firnl Laboratory. Behind us I could hear Gekko muttering to Orkoff. “You see, Orkoff/ Devil take the silver pill ... it is too undependable. Now we can ask Moscow if they will let us continue our project on the sexual behaviour of animals. That would be far more practical and reliable. . . .”

  I could hear no more. I steered Katie toward the Daimler which stood remote and important-looking on the driveway. The sun was boiling down from the heavens. A hot day coming. A very hot day. But nothing as torrid as the morning just spent by Damon and Company.

  I had rewritten Betchnikian history.

  “What do we do now?” Katie murmured, walking at my side toward the Daimler.

  “Walk,” I said, “do not run to the nearest exit.”

  “Then what, Lover?”

  “You wake your father up. Tell him he fell asleep and in his snooze, he missed the visit of the great Commissar Damonski from Moscow. He’ll be disappointed, but at least you’ll be covered if Gekko and Orkoff mention me before they clear out of here. You dig?”

  “I dig you,” she said. “And I don’t care about Hollywood or fame or anything anymore. Couldn’t you take me with you forever? I’d be your secretary; I type like mad, and I’m good at dictation and all. Besides, didn’t you notice how well I filled in when I had to? I get jealous, sure, but I’d never get mad enough to cut it off you or anything stupid like that.”

  “Katie, you’re a peach, but I’m a lone wolf.”

  “Isn’t that the turtle’s ass?” she said vehemently. She whipped open her door of the Daimler, and I climbed into the back seat. She wasn’t humming anymore. A bad sign.

  “Katie.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll make a deal with you. The Hollywood bit still stands. But if you drove me to Munich in this heap we could have a ball along the way until I took my plane. We could be together at least another day. As soon as it takes off, I will leave, but I don’t mind telling you I am going to miss you like crazy. You’re a great lay, Katie. One of the greatest.”

  “Honest?” Her eyes blinked like moons in the rear-view mirror.

  “Honest. I wouldn’t kid a future rock and roll star like you, would I?”

  “Oh, Rod!”

  “Well? Coming to Munich with me or not?”

  She nodded rapidly. “As soon as we take care of Poppa —gee willies, Rod, I’ve always wanted to shack up on a trip with a man—and it being you just about makes it perfect!”

  I leaned back against the seat cushions and closed my eyes. I felt just fine. My body never better. My mind was at ease, definitely. Global world peace had been restored and there would be no silver pill nonsense to louse up the bivouac. And I could get back to the university and continue the happy life among my test tubes and females, without interruption. Meanwhile, en route to that happy destination, I would have the willing and wanton company of the greatest undiscovered piece of musical property outside of America.

  K-K-K-Katie!

  So round, so firm, so fully stacked.

  So in love with me and what I had.

  As Katie herself would say, Gee Willies, I had it made!

  The Masters-Johnson people, no matter how technical they ever got on sexual response patterns and truisms, would never understand the Rod Damons of this world. Or the Katrina Walskys.

  Some people—if you must know the truth—just would rather get laid than do anything else.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Twenty-four hours later, I was back in Munich, with my new luggage, and waiting for the plane in the airport terminal. I was taking the twelve fifteen flight out of Munich for America. Katrina Walsky was on her way back to Betchnika in the Daimler, taking the phony commissar’s uniform with her to return to the little theater property building. It had served its purpose.

  Our parting was brief and tearless. Katie learned fast. Besides which, she didn’t have the strength to cry. We had paused and dallied in every cottage hotel along the route and tangoed together at every opportunity. Once, during a rainstorm, we parked the Daimler in a copse of trees and really went to town. I never realized how much the automobile is conducive to sexual relations. A naked Katie in a car was a revelation. She pulled out all the stops.

  And then some.

  By my count, when we reached Munich, I’d say we had spent some ten of the twenty-four hours in the sack. Now that is some puning even by my standards. For a recently discharged virgin, it was incredible. Katie was an ace girl all the way. I made her a gift of the Renault.

  But Munich came and with it goodbye.

  I kissed her in the airport terminal. I didn’t want her to wait until the plane took off. She understood. She was a sweetheart right to the end.

  “So long, Katie. See you in Hollywood.”

  “Bye, Rod. It’s been.

  “And it will be.”

  We kissed again.

  “Katie, do me a favor?”

  “Anything, lover.”

  “Say Gee Willies again and beat it.”

  So she did and walked out of my life, through the revolving doors and her adorable rump twitched and revolved all the way. Never mind the future before her— she would always have a great future behind her.

  I knew I was going to miss her, but in my business, the beach is loaded with pebbles. I would make sure however when I got back stateside that Walrus-moustache would keep his promise and get Katrina Walsky out of that hick nowhere known as Betchnika.

  With some time to burn, I called the tall trim bastard on the special phone and made my report. He listened with all his yeah-team-spirit, and when I was done, he fairly crowed from his end of the line.

  “Magnificent, Damon!”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Superlative!”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Splendid!”

  “If you say so.”

  “You have dealt that silver pill project a death blow from which it will never recover——”

  “Cut the crap
. Can I come home now? I’m tired. I want to get back to my university. And Suzanne and Annette. They’re sisters who—oh, hell, forget it.”

  He chuckled, in his own lionizing way.

  “Still feathering your nest, eh, my boy? You are the eighth wonder of the world. When will you run dry—?”

  “When the Montreal Expos win the pennant,” I snapped. “Like never. And for another thing—”

  Suddenly, through the glass door of the booth I saw a familiar sight. A trim figure, with a rump swinging like a pendulum, a high shelf of breast, but this time there was no airline uniform. No blue outfit. It couldn’t be, but it was. Wilhelmina of Lufthansa. But not in mufti. And she was heading down the sloping ramp toward the doors leading out to the field. There was no time to lose.

  “I say, Damon,” Walrus-moustache purred, “are you still there?”

  “But not for long. So long, pal. See you in the funny papers!”

  He exploded, I hung up and then I broke the four-minute mile leaving the booth and catching up with the lovely phantom just reaching the glass doors. Out on the field, beyond the wire fences, great big planes shone on the runway. Jet engines blasted the Munich sky. It was a fine day to go winging off in all directions. Why not?

  I grabbed her by the buttocks, she stiffened, and whirled on me, almost dropping her luggage. Which I now saw consisted of a set of bound skis and shoes and a neat blue flight bag.

  It was her all right.

  Eyes as blue as ink, skin like sapphires winking and that oh so great over-all blondeness. Her red mouth dropped when she recognized me, to be replaced by a bronze flush of pure loveliness.

  “Wilhelmina of Lufthansa!” I said.

  “Damon of America!” she blurted.

  We embraced. Almost immediately my temperature soared. She felt it, knew it and hugged me even tighter.

  “But this is marvelous,” she crooned. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d forgotten me and gone back to your America.”

  “Who me? Nonsense. Never happen. As it does happen, my affairs are concluded in Munich and I thought it might be nice to try the skiing in St. Moritz?”

  The question almost didn’t need an answer.

  “Oh, Rod. This is too much—that is exactly where I am going—this is a heavenly coincidence! I have the entire weekend at my disposal and it would be marvelous if we could spend it together—”

  “We will.” I took her arm, changing my plans on the spot. The good old U.S.A. could do without me for another Friday, Saturday and Sunday. This was one weekend that would not be Lost. And if all went as well as I expected, Wilhelmina would have a nice weak end when I was through with her. “I’m yours until Monday, Willie.”

  Skiing, sheing, it’s all the same to me.

  If they want to mix it up with snow and ice and mountains, it’s okay with me.

  Wilhelmina, sympatico Willie, stood in awe of our chance meeting. It seemed God-like to her that we should run into each other. Ships that pass in the night seldom do, ever again. She knew thatmuch, with her airline time and experience.

  We waited in the alcove by the doorway as our plane thrummed up on the runway. I’d managed to run and go get a new ticket for the flight. Wilhelmina’s flight was still fifteen minutes off. She had wanted to go on board earlier to see some of her old pals on the flight. She knew the crew.

  So we held hands in the alcove and talked and her eyes continued to stray down toward my crotch. I caught her looking and laughed. “It’s still there, lovely. All in one piece.”

  Wilhelmina shook her head, sighing.

  “It still is amazing. After we—on the plane—I must confess—I tried to make love to another man—but it was no use. He was so small, so puny—I’m afraid I was a very naughty woman. I laughed at him and walked out. You see, you have spoiled me for other men. It was meant that we should meet like this. It is Kismet.”

  Dames are a romantic breed, aren’t they?

  “Let me spoil you some more, huh?”

  “I would like that. Yes.” She lowered her hands so no one could see and gave a gentle squeeze to that which makes me tick. Her eyes jumped.

  “Himmel!” she gasped. “It is always like that?”

  “Always. Even more so when the woman is right.”

  “And I am right?”

  “If you were any righter, Willie, they’d arrest you for subversion. I can’t wait to get to St. Moritz.”

  “She chuckled. A woman’s chuckle. I had missed something.”

  “What’s funny?”

  “We won’t have to wait until St. Moritz. It will be fine in the Alps, but we won’t have to wait—you will see.”

  I saw.

  On the flight.

  Even though it was broad daylight and a short trip, Wilhelmina’s pal, the stewardess, managed to give us the rearmost window seat, which was curtained and private. It was the spot reserved for the stews and crew to grab a smoke if they wanted to. I tell you—virgins learn fast if they are broken in properly. Obviously I had broken Wilhelmina in properly. We had no sooner left Munich below the cloudbanks of fluff and cotton, that she immediately unzippered my fly for a look at the family jewels. It was the very first thing she insisted on doing. I thrilled to her touch and towered another few inches in response.

  “Hey,” I murmured. “I am glad to see you but don’t rush me. I’m swelling—” She wasn’t listening. Her golden head went down and her red mouth encircled me. Softly, slowly and with great affection. She murmured happily in her throat. I sat back, made myself comfortable and fastened my right hand around her superbly curved rump, managing to insert a deft hand under her skirt between the hills of home. My most very favorite territory in all female topography.

  This was even better than anything in Betchnika.

  Wilhelmina had willowy, filled-out height. Katrina Walsky hadn’t. It does make a slight, very fine difference in the leg department.

  She kissed me once.

  She kissed me twice.

  And then she kissed me again.

  I got longer and longer. Soon she had to see to it that both her hands held the beautiful monster at bay. I didn’t let go, though. I was having too much fun.

  She mmmmmmed and ummmmmmed and yummed and my busy hand made her begin to twitch and strain and flutter. Her long thighs parted and even the drone of the jet engines could not drown out her sighs. She was giving milk like a prize Holstein cow.

  “Oh, Rod. . . .”

  It was a whisper. A plea.

  “Yeah, Willie?”

  “Let go. Please. Release yourself. Don’t hold back. Always I have wanted to feel you pulsate in my mouth . . . please?”

  What’s a guy to do with a doll like that except to accommodate her and do exactly what she wants? 1 nodded, waited and just as her red lips seemed to sheath me as far as it could, I cut loose. The full golden tide. The Milky Way. The pathway to the stars and the outer space of male sexual bliss. It was a long time coming and a long time going. But I did not faze the maiden of the skies. If anything, she drank and chewed me to a fare-thee-well, and soon we were clasped together warmly and I was locked inside where it was nice and warm. The steady rhythm of the plane lulled us. But not for long.

  “Lover,” she said simply. “Man of mine. Now will you do what I ask of you . . . please?”

  “Ask me anything.”

  “Then drink the Rhinemaiden, Damon darling, and then take her for she is yours. Here in the bold blue sky she loves, and up here in the sun where she lives. . . .”

  Geezis, it was poetry.

  In motion and in flight.

  Wilhelmina looked at me, smiled her red-lipped smile and I gently urged her creamy thighs apart and lowered myself away to the waiting Paradise whose gates were covered with the magnificent ivy that Mother Nature put there and man can never match or manufacture in a laboratory. Any laboratory. The Venus Mound bows to nothing in the beauty league.

  ’Twas ever thus. Thanks to Jalal al-Din al-Siyuti, Yanko
wski, Dealey, Nakoma, Saganelli, Von Firtz, Von Tappen, Ferrago, and all that marvelous crew, who really understood women.

  Quixotic Rod Damon too, who perhaps understands them better than anybody. Ask my girls at the university. Ask anything in skirts who has ever had the pleasure of my company.

  Wilhelmina shrieked with discovery.

  “Oh, oh, oh . . . Rod . , . you are coming to the cabaret . . . to St. Moritz . . . you will take me on skis, off skis, on the ski-lift . . . oh, oh, oh. ...”

  You know that dame promised me just about everything all the way on the flight into St. Moritz.

  You know something else?

  She kept every one of her promises too.

  No wonder the Rhineland is coming back as a world power.

  Hitler’s Festung Europa proved to be a myth.

  But Germany is having a ball.

  Just like Rod Damon, they are putting their money where their mouth is.

  Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you may be dead.

  With a life campaign like that, how can the Wilhelminas of this world lose?

  So much for politics—

  Meanwhile, back at Wilhelmina’s thighs, I reveled and rocked and rolled all the way into St. Moritz.

  I was coming in on a ring-a-ding-ding and a bare-assed beauty.

  It’s the only way to live.

  Thus, I refute all bluenoses and killjoys everywhere.