Contents
The Jaded Sex
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Also Available
THE JADED SEX
BY FLETCHER BENNETT
First published in 1963 by Neva Paperbacks as a “Playtime Book”.
This edition published in 2019 by Ferox Press.
CHAPTER 1
IT STARTED, FOR four people, with a little piece of cardboard.
No doubt you’ve seen thousands like it: White, rectangular, three and a half inches long by two inches wide, cut from seventy-five or hundred pound card stock. They’re known as business cards, and every time a man tries to sell you something, whether it’s life insurance or a vacuum cleaner or even himself, he gives you one of those cards.
Usually, they’re printed with the name, title, profession, firm, phone number, and what-have-you of the person-presenting them. People have such cards made up as a shortcut to introducing themselves, and as a form of insurance that you, having been handed the critical information in print, won’t forget who they are, or what they want from you.
Business cards are a convenience. In some lines of work, they’re a necessity. You may even have business cards of your own; at any rate, you certainly know what they look like.
You also know they’re nothing to get excited about.
But don’t miss the point here. A piece of cardboard, even a piece of business cardboard, has no function or importance all by itself. Actually, it’s nothing but a blank surface, a medium designed to take an ink impression. And that impression is what really counts.
Words.
No, cards can’t change anybody’s life—but words can. Put the right words on a card and hand that card to the right person at just the right time, and it’s possible that person’s life will never be the same again.
Think about it: You’re walking down a dark street in a strange neighborhood. There’s a corner just ahead, and you’re planning to turn it. But before you can reach that corner, an arm comes out of the shadows and hands you a card, which says: There’s a nut with a knife waiting on the next street. You read the card, you look at the neighborhood, and you turn back. And instead of dying on the street that night, you die in bed of natural causes thirty years later.
Or: You’re in the bedroom of a girl’s apartment, and she’s taking off her clothes for you and showing you everything she has, and you’re feeling yourself becoming pretty excited over what you see, and you know exactly what’s going to happen in the next few minutes, or hours. Then you spot a card somebody’s left on her dresser. It says: Danger—She's Diseased— Go elsewhere. So instead of taking off your own clothes, you just take off, period—and you avoid a lot of complications and expense.
Or: You’re at the track, and somebody hands you a card saying: Maytime in the fifth—it’s a fix. And instead of betting your, roll on the favorite, as you planned, you shoot the works on a dog named Maytime, and she romps home, and you rake it in.
Far fetched? Perhaps. You might have trouble imagining anyone who cared enough about you to pass you such vital information. Or maybe you just can’t picture anyone with such I an exhaustive knowledge of your ways and fates.
But just suppose:
The boss thinks you’re gold-bricking. Watch it. A warning like that could save your job.
Or: Charlie’s on the make for your girl. Heads up. You might never have suspected old Charlie was any competition until he’d cut you out, if not for the warning on that card.
Or: Barbara—ODessa 7-3385—tonight after eight. If a good-looking gal named Barbara handed you that card, wouldn’t it make a difference in your evening?
See? The card itself doesn’t matter, but the words do. There could easily be a simple set of words that could change your life at some point, and if you were handed a card with those words printed on it at precisely the critical moment—
Words can change things. Cards can carry words. So cards can change things, too.
Four people found things changed by a card.
Four separate and distinct people, who didn’t know or care about each other; and a card changed things for each of them, in each of four different ways. It made them aware of something they never knew before, and altered the angles of their lives—subtly, maybe, but just enough.
For two of them, the change was for the better. As for the other two—well, you’d better judge that for yourself.
Oh—and one more thing. The card. Here’s what it said:
Private Personal
MADAME FURY
Day or Night — YEoman 6-6059
Does that sound interesting to you?
Four people thought it was fascinating.
* * *
Ginny Ford was being watched.
She could feel the eyes on her as surely as she could feel the heat of the grill in front of hen There wasn’t anything extraordinary about the sensation; Ginny was used to being watched. She knew she was a sexy girl, or that men considered her sexy. She knew that her tight-fitting waitress’s uniform showed off the swell of her young breasts, the mounding of her neat behind, the round solid calves below the hem of her skirt. She was aware that the outfit displayed her' body to good advantage, and that the men who came to the diner hungering fear food quite often ended up hungering for her instead.
She was young, just past eighteen, she was a natural blonde, she was ripe and rounded, she had large blue eyes and a pert nose and a full sensuous mouth. She was pretty, she was sexy, she was very watchable, and she knew it.
She was, in short, used to having men look at her. But that didn’t mean she liked it.
The pancakes on the grill were done on one side. She slipped the spatula in under them and flipped them over. There were some sausages near the edge of the grill, and she teased them into a new position in the sizzling fat. She turned, took down a plate from a shelf nearby, put it next to the grill, then took a clean cup and saucer from a bin under the counter, twisted the handle of the coffee urn, and filled the cup. The ritual was completely automatic, even though she didn’t usually work at the grill. On nights when the cook was sick, however—such as tonight—she had no trouble whipping up the less complicated orders, as long as business didn’t get too brisk.
It was all very familiar and ordinary. The eyes watched every move.
She brushed a stray whisp of blonde hair back from her brow, and sighed. She wished he’d stop. She wished he’d cut it out, and go away. Failing that, she wished fate would allow her to go away, or at least move out of the range of his vision, down the counter where she wouldn’t present such an attractive target for his gaze.
Wishing was one thing; but reality, unfortunately, was quite another. She could wish anything she pleased, but the facts remained the same; She was sexy, she was a waitress; she was stuck on duty until 2 A.M., and the eyes were watching her.
Feeling the tingle of his gaze on her, she could almost picture his expression, and the mental images he must be conjuring up in his mind. It was a crazy feeling. If Ginny had been watching a man looking at a photo of her naked, watching him twitch and quiver with arousement as a picture of her nudity fed the fires of his solitary desire—it would feel the way this felt. The eyes hungered for her, peeled her clothing away, fondled the secret places of her body, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
The hotcakes and sausage were just about done. She piled the food o
n the plate, then bent to pick some fresh silver out of the drawer beneath the counter.
The eyes watched, fascinated.
It had to be somebody at the counter, she thought. A man sitting at the counter would be in a position to enjoy a view of her entire body, whereas a man at a table would be able to see only the upper half of her above the counter top. Experience had taught her that men didn’t look at girls unless they could see the girls backsides, or their legs, or their breasts, or at least their faces. And since a man at a table would be able to see only her blonde hair and her back, the watcher had to be sitting at the counter.
The eyes. The damn hungering eyes.
She thought: Damn you, mister, whoever you are. I can’t keep you from looking, I can’t keep you from wanting—but I sure as hell can keep you from getting. You can ache for it all you want, but you can’t have any. Not you, or anybody else. No man’s had any from me yet, and no man’s going to, either—not unless he can prove he’s worth giving it to. Look till your eyes fall out, you silly bastard.
But you’re going home hungry.
Ginny picked up the plate and the coffee cup, turned her back on the eyes, and walked down the counter. An old man was sitting there, dressed in faded workclothes and wearing a cap with a Transit System badge on it. He 'was probably a porter from the Subway station around the corner; he looked tired, disinterested, and not at all the type to stare at a girl intently enough for her to feel it.
Ginny set the order down in front of him, pulled a paper ; napkin from a holder, and laid the silver on it. “Anything else, mister?” she asked.
The old man looked around. “Syrup?”
“Oh, sure. Sorry.” She turned. There was a pitcher of maple syrup within reach, and as she stretched her arm out for it, she felt her firm breasts tighten against the bodice of her dress. She also felt the eyes fix suddenly on those breasts, and realized she was facing the watcher.
The eyes—they seemed almost to be touching her, seemed to be imagining past the concealment of her dress and bra down to the naked flesh, drawing against her hidden nipples like obscene little suction-cups.
She grabbed the pitcher and turned quickly. Her spine crawled as she carried it back to the old man.
I won’t look at you, she thought. I won’t give you the satisfaction. I’m just going to pretend you don’t exist until you go away, even if it takes all night to get rid of you.
“Everything okay, mister?” she asked the old man.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll want some more coffee a bit later."
“Sure,” said Ginny. “Just say the word.”
The old man bent over his plate and began eating. Ginny remained standing where she was, looking past him out the window to the street. It had been raining earlier, and the pavement was wet with reflections of neon and street lights. The sidewalks were practically empty—it was past midnight—so the view through the window wasn’t particularly interesting.
Ginny stared at it anyway. She didn’t want to turn around. The eyes were behind her, still fixed on her roundness, still imagining, still desiring. She began to wonder if she was as used to being stared at as she thought. After six months of working in this diner, she certainly should be; there was hardly a male customer in all that time who hadn’t at least taken a glance at her, if not more. Besides, the staring hadn’t begun with the diner—it had been going on ever since her second year of high school, when her body had finally ripened into its maturity. The boys had stared at her then, and after a while the men had started staring at her, too. Being watched was a constant part of her life. Even at the funeral, as she stood dressed in discreet black, watching her mother being lowered into the earth beside her father, one of the lousy gravediggers had been looking at her legs.
But that was different. Being looked at, being examined, being the object of male attention was easy enough to bear. But being lusted after, as she was at that moment—that was something she’d never get accustomed to.
“Penny for your thoughts, miss.”
She snapped back to the present and glanced at the old man. He was grinning.
“Sorry, pal,” she said. “I won’t take any less than a token.”
He chuckled. “You know—when I was a young man, girls didn’t think as much as they do nowadays.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yep. And, tell you the truth, I think things were better that way.”
Ginny smiled shallowly. “For the men, maybe.”
The old man laughed. “For the men, definitely.”
Ginny shrugged her shoulders, forcing herself to relax. The guy was just an old has-been, but somehow she found his face and the sound of his voice soothing. He, at least, was too old and shriveled to lust for her—not like the young men with their imaginings and eyes . . .
“Hey,” she said, half to herself.
The old man looked up. “Hey, what?”
Ginny blinked a few times, then smiled and shook her head. “I just thought of something. Listen—tell me when you want that coffee.”
“Will do” The old man watched her, puzzled. After a moment, he turned his attention back to his plate.
Ginny held her position, held her breath, and concentrated until she was absolutely sure.
No eyes.
She turned slowly until her back was to the old man. Her body was facing full-front up the counter now, and if the eyes were ever going to watch her, drool their rotten desire on her flesh, heat her with their lust, it would be at this moment.
But they didn’t They were gone. At some point during her conversation with the old man, the eyes had stopped watching her.
She looked up. There were three people at the counter—the fat man who ran the news stand by the Subway entrance; the beat cop who usually stopped in for coffee every midnight; and a muttering old lady on her way home from some local gin-mill, smoking a cigarette and slurping her coffee.
None of them were looking in her direction. None of them had been looking at her, either; she was certain of it.
Her eyes scanned the counter, and found the empty space. A cup of coffee, drained, and a plate with a few crumbs on it—that’s where he’d been. There was no doubt about it, even though she couldn’t recall what he had looked like, or even having waited on him.
The cop was gesturing at her with his coffee cup. “Little lady? How about another belt of this mud?”
“Coming right up,” she said.
“And gimme some extra cream,” called the cop. “I gotta cut this muck somehow.”
Ginny smiled with relief as she drew a fresh cup of coffee. Things were back to normal. The eyes were gone.
She delivered the coffee to the cop, then looked around to see if anybody else needed her. Her eyes fell on Benny, the owner of the diner, who was standing behind the register counting checks.
The watcher couldn’t have left without stopping to pay Benny at the register. And Benny was the sort of fellow who saw everything. Therefore, it stood to reason that Benny had gotten a look at the guy, and would be able to describe him. Ginny went down around the counter’s end and was halfway to the register before she wondered why the watcher’s identity seemed so important to her.
Benny looked up as she came toward him. “How’re you doing, Gin? Managing the grill okay?”
“Sure, Benny.” She glanced out the door, but the street beyond the glass was empty. “listen—did somebody just pay up and leave? I mean, a couple minutes ago?”
Benny pursed his lips and continued to leaf through the stack of checks. “Yeah. Coffee and a Danish. Thirty-five cents. What about it?”
“I wondered, that’s all. Got right by me.”
“So what? No tip?”
“No. I just never saw him go—I wondered what he looked like,”
Benny lifted his eyes. “He? That wasn’t no he. That was a her.”
Ginny stared at him. “A her? A woman?”
“Uh-huh. Fancy-looking one, too. Not young, but I would
n’t mind at all getting . . .” He paused, and glanced at her in embarrassment. “Sorry, Gin. I didn’t mean to crack wise. I forgot for a second.”
Ginny shook her head. “She was pretty, this woman?”
“Damn right. Kind of—well—schoolteacherish, maybe. Had her hair all pulled back, didn’t wear much makeup, had this plain black dress on. But she was one classy broad, I tell you.” Benny frowned. “What the hell do you mean, you didn’t see her? You waited on her, didn’t you?”
Ginny stared off into space. “Yeah. I must have.”
He finished with the checks, squared, them, and snapped a rubberband around the pile. “Keep your eye on that old bat,” he said, nodding past Ginny at the drunken old lady nearby. “If she starts to fall, grab her—she’ll sue if she hits the floor.”
“Yeah. Sure, Benny. Will do.” She smiled at him, then went back behind the counter again. On her way toward the old lady, she passed the place where the watcher had been, and remembered the remark Benny had made about the tip. Watchers sometimes overtipped, as if in payment for their fun, or perhaps out of a sense of guilt. It didn’t happen often, but when it did it could go as high as a dollar.
Of course, she had no idea what kind of a tip a female watcher would leave.
She cleared the dishes from the counter, and dumped them in a bin below. She was expecting to see some change, or maybe a folded bill, and it took a few seconds for her to realize there was a white card lying there on the counter.
She picked it up, looked under it for a tip that wasn’t there, then glanced at the card itself. She read the lines of print through once, then again, more slowly. Her brow wrinkled, and she began to scowl. She turned the card over, but there was nothing written on the back.
Now what the hell? The longer she looked at the card, the more meaningless it became. Day or Night, and the phone number—those were straightforward enough. And the name—well, she couldn’t recall ever hearing of a business or an individual with such a weird name, but anything was possible.
The Jaded Sex Page 1