The Jaded Sex

by Fletcher Bennett

  “I need—something. Help, I suppose.”

  “You desire my help?”

  “Yes. I guess so. Who are you?”

  “A person who can help you. If you’ll let me. Will you let me?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. Can you?”

  “I can. Trust me.”

  “I do. I don’t have anybody else to trust I don't have anybody in the world. Mother’s dead.”

  “Is she?”

  “Yes. She used to tell me things—help me understand things —about how dirty men are, and how I should stay clean. But now . . .”

  “Now?” prompted the voice.

  “Now, I don't know. She didn't tell me everything. In the dream—after I escaped from all those men—something happened, something she never told me about. And I don’t know what to think.”

  “I can help you to understand.”

  “Can you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And touch me?” asked Ginny.

  The voice paused, and Ginny was filled with the awful conviction that she’d said something she shouldn't have—or, worse yet, that the woman at the other end didn't comprehend the question.

  “And touch you,” said the voice finally.

  “I want that. The way it was in the dream.”

  “Yes. I understand. Come to see me, and I’ll do everything you want. I'll make everything all right for you.”

  “I will.” Ginny gripped the phone. “I will come to see you. Where are you?”

  “Do you have a pencil and paper?”

  “Yes, I think so. Wait.” She pulled the night table drawer open, searched in it frantically for a pencil-stub and a scrap of envelope. “Go ahead.”

  “On Staten Island,” said the voice. “Take Richmond Terrace to Hylan Boulevard, and go right.” Pause. “Have you got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go west on Hylan Boulevard to Eugene Street. Go right again.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Eugene Street and Bliss Place.”

  “Is that where you are now?”

  “I will be there.”

  “What number? What’s the address?”

  “You will know the house when you see it. Trust me.”

  “All right I do—I do trust you.”

  “Be there tonight, just before midnight.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. I shall look forward to seeing you.”

  “Madam? Madam Fury?” Ginny didn’t want the connection to be broken. There was safety in the sound of the woman’s voice. When the voice was gone, the terrible lonely silence would close in again, and Ginny didn’t think she could stand it.

  “Yes?”

  “Who are you? Please tell me who you are?”

  Again, the voice seemed to smile. “A friend. Your friend.”

  “I’m all alone.”

  “Not any longer.”

  “I don’t want you to hang up. I’m afraid of what will happen when I can’t hear you any more.”

  “There is no need to fear anything. Nothing can hurt you now. Believe me.”

  “All right.”

  “If you become afraid, think about tonight. Think about the wonderful things that are going to happen tonight Just before midnight.”

  Midnight, Ginny thought Wonderful things happening just before midnight—and then all the clocks in the world would go tick, and it would be a new day.

  “Tell me what it will be like, please? Tell me bow you’ll touch me—how you’ll hold my body, the way you did in the dream. That’s sex, isn’t it? And I was always afraid of sex—all my life, I’ve been afraid to have sex. But that’s because mother didn’t tell me everything I needed to know. She just told me about boys—and she was right about them. Boys are rotten and foul—but women—Isn’t that right? Won’t it be all right to have sex with a woman—for me to have sex with you? Can’t I have that, and still stay clean, the way mother always wanted me to? Isn’t sex between women all right?”

  There it was—the final question at last. Ginny waited breathlessly for the reply.

  In her ear, the only sound was die drone of a broken connection.

  Madam Fury had hung up.

  After a while, the recorded voice of the operator spoke, and Ginny hung up. And the silence closed in around her.

  But somehow, it didn’t seem so terrible as it had before. True to Madam Fury’s promise, the thoughts of the evening to come helped Ginny remain calm, helped keep her warm in the face of the cold desolation of being alone.

  Out there somewhere, at a place on Staten Island which she couldn’t even picture, Ginny had a friend. Madam Fury understood. Madam Fury cared. Madam Fury would help.

  Poor Ginny.

  Things probably would have been different for her if she had called the diner where she worked and told Benny, her boss, that she wouldn’t be in that evening. Benny had a good ear for emotion; he might have sensed the strange note in Ginny’s voice, might have gotten some clue to the vast reorganization that was taking place in her personality. And Benny was enough of a busybody to do something about it He might have dragged from her an admission of where she was going. He might even have sent somebody from the diner to drop in on Ginny and find out what was wrong with her, or even come over to see for himself.

  Ginny didn’t know it, but Benny was quite fond of her in a thoughtful fatherly way. If Benny had learned what she was planning to do, he certainly would have bent every effort to stop her.

  But Ginny didn’t call him. Ginny didn’t call anybody.

  She took a shower and changed all her clothes, and left the apartment before six o’clock. She hurried to the elevated station, her head bent in thought No one paid her any attention.

  She caught an uptown local, and checked her destination on the map. The stop nearest the Staten Island Ferry was Whitehall Street. With that taken care of, she found a seat and sat down, holding her purse loosely in her curled fingers, staring straight ahead of her.

  On the other side of the car, a young man looked at her ankles. He let his gaze travel slowly up the roundness of her calves, enjoying his examination, not wanting to rush it.

  Her knees showed from beneath the hem of her skirt. He liked the sweet mound of her belly, the trim line of her waist Most of all, he relished the up-tilted forms of her breasts, and the manner in which they strained for freedom against her blouse.

  His mind filled with delightful speculation, he let his eyes wander finally up to her face.

  After a moment, he looked away. He shuddered.

  That expression, he thought The eyes—the mouth—she’s pretty, but why is she looking like that? Something’s wrong with her.

  He glanced back once, then looked away quickly, determined not to look at her again.

  She’s crazy, he thought.

  CHAPTER 12

  LIL HAD CHANGED into a set of clothes she normally reserved for work. It was the first time in several years she had dressed in such a fashion over the weekend.

  But then, it was the first time in several years that she’d had a male date on a Saturday night.

  He was waiting in front of her place when she came down at ten o’clock. She saw him through the glass doors of her lobby, and paused. For some reason, she was almost afraid to go out there and get in the car with him.

  That business this afternoon, she thought—that’s what was producing this feeling in her. But knowing didn’t help, because she still hadn’t figured out what had ever prompted her to let him caress her like that.

  She tried to recall the scene, tried to reconstruct her frame of mind at the time. The sun had been soothing, of course, and the long swell of the sea and the aroma of salt air had taken her mind away from reality. And the plan she had conceived—the hilarious idea of taking him along to Madam Fury’s that night, dropping him into the middle of a world his middle-class intellect could never comprehend—her amusement over the plan blurred her wits slightly.

  But neither of those things was
any excuse for what had happened. Teasing the guy—stringing him along, using hot words and lustful hints to get him excited—that was all right.

  But inviting him to touch her breast—not only inviting him, but allowing him, encouraging him—it was simply too much. She couldn’t imagine what had made her do it.

  It was too late to worry about her motives now. It had happened, and nothing could change that. At the moment, she had a far more important question to consider.

  Why had she enjoyed it?

  She had enjoyed it She’d been thinking about it ever since he dropped her off, trying to convince herself there had been no pleasure in his touch, in his kiss. She’d spent the whole afternoon and early evening attempting to talk herself out of k, and failing. By now, she was forced to admit the truth.

  His touch had been pleasure.

  She could still feel the sensation of the sunlight falling on her bared breasts, then the subtle coolness as his hand shaded her, then the completely different warmth of his male palm forming around her curves. She could feel the shock of pleasure which had gripped her at that moment, and recall vividly the manner in which her breast-tip had swollen against his caress.

  His kiss had been pleasure, too.

  She trembled when she thought of it—the glide of his palm underneath her bust, the lift of his strong hand, the sudden insane feeling of his lips enclosing her flesh—not to mention the way that flesh had answered him. The bolt of passion which had shaken her at that moment and threatened to burst her breast, or so it had seemed. The coral tip had surged against his lips, and her whole body had clenched in a spasm of delight.

  In fact, the pleasure of that moment had been so intense that she had done something she’d never willingly done in her life before.

  She’d touched him.

  And that had broken the spell.

  She bit her lip. Yes—it had broken the spell. But for the wrong reason. For the wrong damn reason.

  Why didn’t it disgust me? she thought. It always disgusts me. I’ve never been able to even think of a man aroused like that without feeling a little sick. And to actually touch . . . To actually put my hand . . .

  It should have repelled her. She could have explained it all away with the greatest of ease: She’d been relaxed, dreaming of lesbian delights to come, filled with laughter over the prospect of exposing the young man beside her to life’s rotten underside—and she’d allowed herself to get carried away. She’d let him touch her, and that had reminded her of Sam, and she’d urged him to kiss her, and- that had recalled all the pleasures of her lesbian past. She’d pretended he was a woman, and that was why she’d put her hand on his thigh, that was the reason she’d sought upward with her fingers—she always did that with girls when they were making love.

  And when she touched him, and felt the indisputable fact that he was a male, she’d snapped back to reality and called a halt to his caresses.

  It would be so simple if it had really happened that way.

  But it hadn’t.

  Of all the sensations she’d experienced that afternoon, the one looming largest in her mind was the feeling of his body.

  It hadn’t disgusted her at all.

  It had thrilled her.

  So now what? Did she go outside and get into the car with him, and go through with her original plan? She wanted to get to Madam Fury’s tonight, and she didn’t relish making such a long trip alone. It would be a lot more comfortable to ride to Staten Island in Bill Henry’s red convertible.

  But could she trust herself with him? Suppose he decided to stop somewhere, decided to ignore her instructions and park the car in some desolate spot where they could be alone? Suppose he grabbed her and started running his hands over her, caressing her, arousing her? Worse yet, suppose he took off her clothing, unhooked her bra and threw up her skirt and drew down her panties—suppose he stripped away all her defenses and made love to her, right there in the car?

  Would she be able to resist him?

  Would she even try?

  I’m a lesbian, she thought. That’s the important thing—the thing I have to remember above all else. Just because I lost Sam doesn’t mean I’m going to turn to men for my kicks. Over there, on Staten Island, somebody named Madam Fury is waiting for me, with a dewy-eyed young girl set aside for me to ruin. I must concentrate on that.

  For the space of a heartbeat, she felt the urge to run, flee back upstairs and bolt the door of her apartment. But she hesitated a second too long; out beyond the glass, the young man looked up, saw her standing in the lobby, and waved cheerfully.

  The moment of indecision passed, and she stepped into the chill of the starry night.

  He got out and . held the car door for her. “Hi, Lil,” he said. His voice was as friendly and open as his face. To listen to him, one would never suspect anything more than a handshake had passed between them.

  She slipped into die car, set her knees firmly together, and clasped her hands over her purse. “Hello,” she said. “Did I keep you waiting?”

  “Not long,” he said, coming around the car and climbing in behind the wheel. “All ready to go?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled away from the curb, made a ton at the comer, and headed toward Queens Boulevard. “Nice night,” he said mildly.

  “Yes, it is nice.”

  She wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard him sigh. “Now—whereabouts is this place on Staten Island? Do you have the address?”

  “I have directions. From the ferry, you go along Richmond Terrace, turn right at Hylan Boulevard, and follow that all the way down to Eugene Street.”

  “Not down,” he said. “Across. Hylan Boulevard runs west.”

  “Well, whatever it is.”

  “You know—” He paused for a moment in thought. “I wonder if We’d be better off going through Jersey.”

  “New Jersey?” She looked at him. “I don’t follow you.”

  “Instead of the ferry, I mean. I think we could probably make better time if we took the Holland Tunnel, then cut back to the Outerbridge Crossing. That comes in right near Hylan Boulevard.”

  She shrugged. “Is there a bridge from Jersey to Staten Island? Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes.” He acted surprised. “A couple of them. Didn’t you know that?”

  “No.”

  He fell silent for a bit. “Listen, Lil—this place you’re going to . . .”

  “What about it?”

  “Ever been there before?”

  “No.”

  “You still haven’t told me what this is all about, you know.”

  “I did so,” she said. “I told you it was a party.”

  “Sure—a party. A party way off in a dead corner of Staten Island, at the home of somebody you’ve never visited before. It sounds cockeyed to me.”

  “Does it?” She leaned forward in her seat. “In that case, why don’t you just stop the car and let me out here, and we can forget about the whole thing?”

  “Hey,” he said, grinning. “Don’t get mad. I didn’t say I wasn’t going to take you where you asked. I just said it sounds cockeyed.”

  “Maybe it does,” she replied, her limbs still tense. “If so, then why are you coming with me?”

  “That’s a good question,” he said. “I don’t think I would come with you if I didn’t care about you so much.”

  He fell quiet and seemed to be waiting for a reply.

  She didn’t have one to give him.

  So silence reigned in the red convertible as it purred down Queens Boulevard, crossed the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge into Manhattan, and headed downtown toward the Holland Tunnel.

  * * *

  When the lights of the Staten Island shore were drawing close, Morton took the girl by the arm, and led her down the stairs to the vehicle deck. She followed him meekly to his car,

  and slid inside obediently. He got in beside her, and started the motor.

  The ferry pulled into the slip slowly, lurchin
g from one set of pilings to another like a slow-motion billiard ball, and came to rest finally in the corner pocket. The lines were secured, the gates were lifted, and one by one the cars began to ease up the ramp toward the street.

  Morton followed the line, glancing every now and then at die girl. She sat motionless and silent beside him. She hadn’t said a word since that single startling sentence on the upper deck.

  She wanted to die, thought Morton. How strange that was. He couldn’t recall ever having met anybody who wanted to die before.

  The traffic flowed up the ramps out of the ferry terminal Morton turned right and headed south toward Hylan Boulevard. The area in the immediate vicinity of the ferry was well-lighted and populous, but as soon as Morton turned onto the Boulevard the neighborhood began growing darker.

  He drove until he reached a fairly deserted spot, and pulled over to the curb.

  He turned to the girl.

  She was still staring straight ahead, and her face seemed to be sculpted of stone.

  “Why?” he asked.

  She closed her eyes. “None of your business. Leave me alone.”

  “If I left you alone, you’d kill yourself. I want to know why.”

  “Shut up.” She opened her eyes again, but didn’t look at him.

  He searched for something to say. “Have you been thinking about it long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Do you know what it’s like?”

  She turned her head toward him. “Death, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I don’t know what it’s like. Do you?”

  He smiled. “I think so. It’s no more life. It’s cold and alone, nothing to look forward to, nothing to enjoy, everything over—forever.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Mister—you’re not talking about death. You’re talking about life.”

  “Your life?”

  “You couldn’t describe it better.”

  Morton paused to light a cigarette. He handed it to the girl, she accepted it without comment, and he lit another for himself.

  “Do you still want to die?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Right now—right this moment. If I took out a gun and put it to your head, would you want me to pull the trigger?”