ethical as far as that goes, though part of that has to do with his hometown image. Anyway, my best girl friend was this guy’s, what, mistress? Mistress for over a year. He kept her in an apartment and treated her all right, except that the apartment was more like a prison, since he’s a fanatic about keeping their affair an utter secret. Then last month he told her their big love was kaput for now, and he sent her down to Florida and he’s paying through the nose to keep her down there, and he’s leading her on that he’s going to start back up with her as soon as he feels things are safe again.”
“You think his wife found out or what?”
“Maybe, but that’s no big thing. Ray, I mean this guy, and his wife never have been a passionate couple or anything. Separate bedrooms and all that. It’s just their business, the family business, has to do with Mom, the Flag and Apple Pie, and shacking up with girls half your age doesn’t fit the wholesome American Christian businessman image.”
“Interesting.”
“Brother, that bastard, he calls her up and says, ‘Get out of that apartment,’ and she comes crying to me and says she’s going to Florida. Brother.”
“He kept her in an apartment here in town?”
“Sure. Easy enough for him. He owns apartments all over Port City. He owns this building here, for one, and the building her apartment was in is downtown.”
“Downtown. Wasn’t that risky, a central location like that?”
“Hell, he was her goddamn landlord. Who’s going to talk about a landlord calling on a tenant? Anyway, the building isn’t on the main drag downtown, it’s off on one of the side street business districts. And nobody else in the building would have ever suspected anything going on. Ray, the guy I mean, keeps the middle apartment empty, and she was on the top floor, with some old people on the bottom.”
“Old people?”
“Yeah, some old guy has the bottom floor business office, with an apartment in back for him and his wife. He’s some kind of doctor or something. A chiropractor, I think.”
22
She parted her legs and I crawled up on top of her and slid easily inside. We took our time, as we’d had no foreplay, but she was slick and wet and no trouble getting into and we moved together, instinctively together, working slowly, silently, to a gushing mutual peak where the first sounds from either were simultaneous, semiverbal sighs.
I stayed on top of her for a minute or so, one hand still under her ass, cupping one cheek, the other hand cupping a full breast, the nipple of it going from a hard point to a gentle nudge against my palm. I nuzzled her neck and she rolled her head slowly around, liking it. I felt myself getting small, sliding out of her by nature not by choice, and she eased out from under me and off the bed and paddled out of the bedroom into the bathroom, her ass jiggling beautifully as she went.
I flipped over on my back, reached over to the nightstand and yanked a tissue from the Kleenex box and wiped myself off. My stomach muscles were aching, but pleasantly; I felt drained, but in a nice way. And my shoulder wasn’t bothering me at all. I propped a pillow up behind me, half-sitting, half-lying, and stared at the ceiling.
Earlier, when we’d finished the second grapefruit, we had moved into the living room, continuing our small talk. But as we approached the sofa, Peg had said, “This place is too goddamn depressing, it’s like talking in a rest home,” and I’d followed her into the bedroom, where her unmade double bed had obviously been slept in on one side only. The room wasn’t much different from the rest of the apartment; the furniture in here was just as pedestrian as out there, though unlittered by doilies and knickknacks. Just another study in stucco-walled apartment complex typicality, though considerably livened up by a smattering of posters, the brightest being reprints of gaudy old film ads from the Thirties, one showing King Kong having a gay old time atop the Empire State Building, another showing the Marx Brothers having equally good a time at the circus. There was also an orange poster showing an underground cartoonist’s vision of pinheaded men with very thick legs and large feet dancing in a line, the words “Keep on Truckin’” over their heads. Next to that was a poster of that pointy-eared spaceman from TV, while on another two rhinos humped below the words “Make Love Not War.” The most striking was a black and white poster of Marilyn Monroe’s face, right over the bed. The effect of them was strange, as instead of counteracting the elderly aura of the outer apartment, these posters, these free spirits, seemed imprisoned in this room in this old folks home of an apartment, and seemed to be looking at me, saying, “What are we doing here?” I couldn’t help but wonder if Peg had put them up to keep sanity while her mother was alive and dominating this world, or if she had put them up since her mother’s death, for company. I didn’t ask and she didn’t tell me. All she did was sit down on the bed, right under the Monroe picture, and looked at me with her lips slightly parted, as though she were going to say something, going to actually continue the small-talk we’d begun over grapefruit. But she hadn’t done that. I’d put a finger to her lips and had pulled the blue sweater gently over her head. She hadn’t protested. In fact she’d gone on to slip out of her hotpants and the blue lacy panties and helped me out of my clothes.
I heard water running in the other room and I sat up straight and called out, “What are you doing?”
“Taking a bath! Care to join me?”
I walked into the bathroom. She wasn’t in the tub yet; she was leaning down testing the water. I touched her back and she turned around and came into my arms and we kissed. It was a long kiss.
She said, “That’s the first time you ever kissed me.”
“I’ve only known you an hour and a half. Give me a chance.”
“Well, you screwed me. I’d think you would’ve had the decency to kiss me before you screwed me.”
“You didn’t seem to be interested in kissing.”
“I guess we both sort of skipped the preliminaries.”
“I guess so.”
“I guess people don’t kiss as much as they used to.”
“I guess not.”
“I guess they’d rather get down to business.”
“I guess.”
We kissed again. Just as long. “You know something?” she said.
“What?”
“It’s too bad kissing’s gone so out of style.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s nice. Next time, tell you what.”
“What?”
“Let’s not skip the preliminaries.”
“You complaining about my technique?”
“Hardly.”
We kissed again. Shorter this time.
“Let’s get in the tub,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
We got in, her in front; I soaped her back and kissed her neck.
She said, “I always take a bath after I screw.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
“What if you screw in the backseat of a car?”
“I sponge-bathe,” she said, and laughed. “No, you silly bastard, I take a bath as soon as I get home, in that case.”
“You like baths.”
“Yeah. You suppose I take baths after I screw because of guilt feelings? Like Lady Macbeth washing the blood off her hands?”
