I paused at the foot of the bed and turned to the detective. He looked confused, lost, unsure of himself. Sex could do that—turn the most confident men into awkward, bumbling buffoons. In their excitement they would pop buttons, take one sock off and leave one on, trip over their shoes; and if they attempted to disrobe me first, they always had trouble with fasteners and zippers. Few of the men I had known were graceful about their foreplay. Michael had been a definite exception: caring, soft, gentle, his fingers moving so softly they could have been made of air.
I stepped up to the detective and began to unbutton his shirt. He stood there, his indecision settling back to be replaced by his growing passion as he realized this was no dream; this was really about to happen. He fumbled with his belt buckle after I had opened his shirt and run my palms along his chest.
“Aren’t you the muscular one?” I said. “I suspected so.”
“Got to keep in shape for times like this,” he replied. Standing in his polka dot boxer shorts, he did not cut as sophisticated an image as he might have hoped, but when he peeled off his T-shirt to reveal a firm ripple of muscle along his pectorals and deltoids, any thought of laughter was driven away.
I smiled appreciatively as I reached behind my dress and unzipped it. The dress poured down my legs and fell to the carpet. I stepped out of it as carefully as one would step out of a warm bath. Then I unfastened my bra, which had been so tight, it flew off me as if it had been a dove trapped and suddenly freed. I wore no panties.
The detective’s eyes brightened with erotic fire, his smile lustful. But that was good. As his gaze traveled from my breasts down, I felt Richard slipping farther back. I sensed him groping, clawing, losing his grip and falling down the dark tunnel that twisted away from my identity. Darkness was overtaking him once again. I felt him sinking. His screams were drowned in the pool of my laughter, a laughter only he and I could hear.
“I feel like I’m about to step into a Playboy centerfold,” the detective said.
“Let your fantasies run wild, lieutenant.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“First time you called me that.”
“Time to appreciate your rank,” I said. He smiled. We both sensed that our love banter was drawing to an end. We would soon speak to each other through our fingers and lips, each embrace a sentence carrying us toward the climax.
I moved toward him, his smile now more a smile of awe than humor. I touched his lips gently and brought my hands to his hips, drawing his lower body to me first. He lifted his hands to my waist and for a moment, we stared into each other’s eyes, tormenting each other with our contact. Then we kissed.
I pressed my tongue as deeply into his mouth as I could, running over his own. The aggressive move took him by surprise, and he gagged and pulled back.
“Easy,” he said. “It’s a long night.”
We sat beside each other on the bed.
“You surprise me,” I said.
“Oh? Why?”
“Most men don’t have the control. They need immediate gratification.” I laughed. “You’ll hear the inferior women complain about their husbands. They’ll say they don’t want any foreplay anymore. It’s mount, grunt, come and dismount. Some women don’t even experience a single orgasm before their husbands are satisfied. They want to be loved, cherished, stroked, their sex shaped like artists shape clay, with tenderness and affection.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” He ran the palms of his hands over my ribs and lifted my breasts to bring my nipples toward his lips. He moved from one to the other, tasting, licking, nibbling. I closed my eyes and pressed my cheek to his head.
“I don’t think anyone could shape you any better than you already are,” he said. “Forget all this crap about metamorphosis.”
I lay back so he could move his mouth down my body. I felt the blood rush to my face and the heat from that blood slide down over my neck and settle between my breasts, where I knew I had reddened.
As my own passion grew, my heart pounded nails into the door that shut Richard out. The essence of him flickered like a dying candle in the darkness, its tiny flame vulnerable to every rough breeze, everything and anything that moved past it too quickly.
I opened my eyes and saw the detective crouched over me, his head now between my legs. He turned me gently so he could run his hands over my buttocks and kiss the softness there. His hands were soothing but firm as he brought his fingers to the back of my neck and massaged. He was naked himself now and as he bent over to kiss me behind the ears, I felt his hardness press between my thighs, throbbing. The rhythm of that throb synchronized with my own pounding pulse.
I went to my knees so he could find his way, and I thought of Iago’s line in Othello: “I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.” But the detective chose instead to turn me again and tuck my legs under his arms.
“You’re so soft,” he said. “There is nothing masculine about you.”
“Not now. Thanks to you,” I added.
He laughed and then he brought himself to me with impressive grace. I opened my eyes to look into his. He was studying me with an unusual detachment. All the men I had ever been with had their eyes closed at this point. In the darkness behind their lids, they searched for some ultimate moment which was surely about to come. But my detective was still a detective scrutinizing my face with his investigative gaze.
He moved slowly at first, and at first, because he was in such control of himself and was merely mechanical, I found myself losing interest, the passion and heat receding from my face and neck like a cooled thermometer. He sensed it and smiled.
“I just wanted to be sure,” he said, “that I was making love to a woman, that you wouldn’t undergo any metamorphosis while I was in the act and suddenly, I would find myself embracing another man. Richard might be stronger than you think.”
“Is that why you turned me over?”
“Yes,” he said. “Aren’t you the little heterosexual.”
I shook my head and smiled. Should I blame him for being so careful? I thought not; instead, I should be happy he had come to believe me and all that I had told him.
He brought his lips to mine and this time it was his tongue that pressed inward, demanding, and it was I who nearly gagged. I felt his body tighten and his grip on me intensify. He drove deeper into me, now thrusting with abandon.
Now his eyes were closed; now he was merely another man seeking physical ecstasy. I squeezed his waist between my legs and clung to him like a monkey. He was lifting me off the bed with his jabs. On and on he went as if the ultimate orgasm was just out of reach each time we came around. Our moans and groans became indistinguishable. My fingernails were digging into his skin, but he didn’t flinch.
I had never suspected he would be so satisfying a lover. We were locked together so tightly in the erotic embrace, I thought our bodies would eventually meld; either he would absorb me or I would absorb him. I couldn’t remember when I had experienced more than one orgasm with a man before. Even poor Michael spent himself instantly after my first, but the detective drove on and on bringing me to a second and third. It seemed odd for me to hear my own cries of pleasure.
Finally, he exploded, bringing his mouth to my shoulder and biting down as if he were more in pain than ecstasy.
I cried out one last time, and he loosened his grip and let his head slip down between my breasts. There he lay regaining his breath. I could feel his heart pounding against me, and surely he could feel and hear my own. Neither of us moved, each afraid to be the one to shatter the moment; each stunned by the magnitude of our sexual ecstasy as if we had gone too far and were awaiting some form of retribution: a heart seizure, some sharp, punishing pain.
I was the first to recuperate. I ran my fingers through his hair and stroked his neck and shoulders. He lifted his head from my bosom and smiled, his eyes so bright with satisfaction and pleasure, they were practically incan
descent.
“For a while there, I didn’t think I could get enough of you,” he said. “I was afraid you had turned me into an Androgyne and I was going to consume you.”
“You were wonderful, a delightfully erotic surprise.”
“Really?” His male ego brightened, and he smiled from ear to ear. “I was good, wasn’t I?” he bragged.
“Don’t look so damn self-satisfied. I have been with other men who were just as wonderful, if not more wonderful,” I said. It was a lie of course, but I couldn’t stand the way he gazed down at me, seeing me as some sort of conquest. He laughed and rolled over.
“You complain about men, but I’ve never seen a woman who knows what she wants. If she satisfies a man and if he satisfies her, she accuses him of having too much male ego. If he is modest about his lovemaking, she accuses him of not loving her, of not being passionate or caring.
“It’s women who make love a torment, not men. For men love has a conclusion. They know what they want and they seek it. When they find it, they’re satisfied, but women … women are never satisfied. They’re always looking beyond one orgasm for another, greater orgasm.” He drew some shape in the air and cried, “The ultimate orgasm.”
“Really?” I said dryly.
“Yes, but do you know what else I think?” he said, turning over to lean on his elbow. “I think women were designed that way deliberately. Because they are insatiable, they are always attractive and attracting. It makes for an endless pursuit.”
“That assumes the man is always the pursuer.”
“One way or another,” he said, “we are. Believe me,” he said confidently.
“And how did you get so wise so suddenly?” I asked, half smiling, half impressed.
“I always get philosophical after I make love. It probably stimulates that part of my brain. What about you? How do you feel right now?”
“You already told me,” I said. “Unsatisfied.”
He laughed and lay back, his hands behind his head.
“You’re my first actress. Notice, I didn’t say ‘my first performer,’” he added.
“That’s all right. You’re my first detective. I had a traffic cop once though, one of those … what do you call them: CHIPs?”
“It’s not the same thing,” he said. “Plain clothes change a man.” I laughed and he turned to me again. “How did you become an actress anyway? Were there Androgyne in the business who helped you, got you the breaks? Not that you needed any special favors,” he added quickly. “I’ve seen your films. You’re good and you look great on the big screen.”
“That’s another part of my story,” I said. I turned to him. He looked very interested and for the moment he was able to put aside the fact that we were still lying naked beside each other, our bodies only inches apart.
“Tell me. Please. When did the acting start? High school?”
“It happened at college,” I began. “As I told you, my mother wanted me to go to college away from here. Alison and I didn’t have any other incidents while we were in high school; we had learned our lesson dramatically that afternoon.”
“Oh yes. How did that end up?”
“There was an investigation, of course, but the police bought Alison’s story; especially since the boy was so battered and had been so big himself. Alison couldn’t possibly be a suspect. She told them she had left him in the bathroom and that was the last she had seen of him.
“They assumed it was some other boy, someone who had been jealous or something and had been following them. He came in after she had left.”
“Did Alison follow you to your college?”
“No, she went to New York to modeling school and became an actress that way. We saw each other off and on, but we had begun to hang out with different sorts of people. My training was more classical. I majored in drama and took acting classes. She got right into print advertisement and television commercials.”
“And you’re a far better actress because of the way you went about it. Not that I’m a critic or anything, but I’ve seen you both in action.”
“Thank you. In my sophomore year, I won a lead role in a Shakespearean play.”
“Which one?”
“Othello. I played Desdemona.”
“You? An innocent? You must have been a good actress from the start.”
“Very funny. Actually, you’re right. I did have natural ability. All my teachers thought so. They said I had an instinctive stage presence, that after I stepped into the lights, they could almost see my transition from reality into illusion. I absorbed my character and took on her gestures, her facial features, her demeanor. I never acted in a vacuum. Soon, they were using me as an illustration for other students.
“‘See how she always grasps a sense of place. See how she understands the importance of the dramatic pause. Slow down, feel your character, be like Clea.’
“Other girls envied and resented me, of course. I realized early on that it would be that way my entire life. There was one girl in particular at my dorm…” I paused and closed my eyes as I turned away from him.
“What? Why did you stop talking?”
“It was the first time I had used Richard in a vengeful, hateful way. He claimed he understood and he didn’t mind being used like that, but … it just wasn’t … wasn’t…”
“Androgynous?” His smiled widened.
“Yes. Go on and laugh if you want, but we do live by a higher standard of ethics. We have a greater obligation to live and be moral.”
“I remember. You’re God’s first, his chosen.”
“Exactly. If we have base motives for our actions, then what we do is no longer pure and good and divinely ordained. We have been given a significant responsibility—to act out God’s retribution. We are here to serve Him, not ourselves.”
“Please, spare me the evangelism. I would have thought your kind avoided that.”
“Just because we are what we are,” I snapped, “it doesn’t mean we’re not religious in our own way.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. You were vengeful and you took advantage of your androgynous powers and gifts to satisfy a selfish motive.”
“Well, I did.”
“Tell me about it. I’ll be the judge,” he said. The expression around his eyes tightened with sincerity.
“Her name was Ophelia.”
“You’re kidding. They named her after Hamlet’s girlfriend, from Shakespeare?”
I was impressed with the detective’s literary knowledge.
“Yes. That was part of it,” I said, unable to hide my disdain. I was surprised that my hatred for her was still as passionate as it had been. Time had not cooled the heat from my hate, nor had my vengeful satisfaction relieved it.
“Her parents were professional actors, classical stage actors and they had named her Ophelia because they had ordained that she would be an actress too. They filled her with the belief that she had inherited whatever acting talents they had. A more conceited little bitch you couldn’t find,” I said through clenched teeth.
“But was she good?”
“What?”
“Did she have any talent?”
I blazed a look of fury at him and then turned away and gazed up at the ceiling.
“Yes,” I admitted. “But nowhere near as much as she thought she had,” I added quickly. “And she couldn’t stand the fact that I did.”
“What was her full name?” he asked in a detective’s tone.
“Ophelia Delano, but she decided to change it to something with more star quality. So she called herself Ophelia Dell.”
“Not bad. Ophelia Dell. It has a certain ring to it,” he said nodding. “What did she look like?” he asked and instantly, her face flashed before me on the screen of my vivid memory.
“She had long, ebony black hair. She wore it down to her shoulder blades. Her dark eyes glittered like shiny black pearls. When I first set eyes on her, I thought she might be androgynous because she had the smoothest complexion
of any inferior I had ever seen. But believe me, she was no Androgyne. I hated her mouth, the cute way it curled up in the corners whenever she was pretending to be pleasant and thoughtful or when she was flirting … tormenting some boy, I should say.”
“A cock tease?”
“One of the worst.” I laughed.
“What?”
“There was an expression, a saying: ‘Ophelia cast her coquettish smile and gathered erections around her like someone casting peanuts attracted pigeons.’”
“Sounds like something you made up,” he said suspiciously. I flashed a sharp look at him. How quickly he was learning to understand me, I thought.
“What if I did? No boy was good enough for her, you see, but she wanted all to be at her feet. She gave away kisses with the same reluctance girls used to have giving away their virginity. She had this thing … oh, how I hated it … of kissing the air between you or blowing a kiss.
“If ever men proved themselves mindless, spineless fools, they did with her—buying her gifts, spending lavishly to wine and dine her, calling, pleading, standing out in the cold rain or snow for a sign, a glimpse, or one of those kisses made of air. She tossed a gesture, a wave in their direction and they had orgasms,” I said.
“It sounds,” the detective said slowly, “like you were more jealous of her than she was of you.”
“Me? Jealous of an inferior female?” I laughed. “Please. I’m just trying to give you an idea of how obnoxious she was so you can appreciate why I did what I did.” He looked skeptical. “I don’t care if you believe that or not.”
“All right, all right. I believe you. How did the other girls in the dorm feel about her?”
“Most were fooled by her,” I said. He smirked. “Well, what do you expect? They didn’t have my insights and perception, did they? They thought she was so fine, so classy, so wonderful. They vied with each other for a compliment from her, for a chance to do something for her to win her favor.
“Flatterers came out of the woodwork. I’m sure she got to think she was a goddess; the others, the idiots, treated her as if she were.”
The Need Page 12