'Jaynothan…!'
I pressed Jay against the life rafts as that familiar irresistible pressure built up under the impetus of Hermaphrodite and the kinkiness of the occasion. Jay's orgasm came seconds before mine. Still shuddering, she pushed me back and dropped to her knees.
I pumped my shaft those last few moments and she bowed her head. I came on her hair like Brylcreem from a barber's squirter. I carefully wiped the last few drops on her disheveled pate.
'Thatsh – that's better. I feel quite shober – sofa – sober now.'
Jay ran her fingers over her hair, slicking it back into place with my warm come. She licked her fingers and grinned up at me.
'Tastes better than that oily stuff!'
'You put your finger up my bum!'
'Well? You're wearing a dress and you're an orifice short. A man has to do what a man has to do.'
She pulled down the brim of an imaginary fedora and sneered.
'That's it baby. Love 'em and leave 'em Neptune, they call me. Hasta la vista, babe. Enjoy the memory.'
'You swine! My mother warned me about men like you! Have your evil way and leave the poor girl holding the baby! Oh! A baby!'
I sobbed and groped in my handbag for a handkerchief. Mr(s) Neptune handed me a tissue.
'Stop your sniveling or I'll give you something to cry about.'
I had another sob then pulled myself together and stuck my nose in the air.
'I don't care. I'm going to burgle a cabin. Are you coming or are you going to stand there preening all night?'
I began to wish I'd taken the mini-skirted steward's advice about the cocktail du soir. Clandestine sleuthing and giggly inebriation are not compatible bedfellows. Talking of the latter, we appeared to have reached the spanker's lair. A smallish lilac sticker on the Boners' cabin door bore the legend 'Accommodation Compliments of the Romance Authors' Association.' I squinted at the swirling highly embellished print in disgust.
'I might have known the old miser wouldn't have paid a cent for this nautical jaunt!'
Harry peered at the sticker and pursed his lips. He desperately needed to refresh his lipstick.
'Hmm. I would have thought Frip'd have her stateroom covered as a lecturing author on a literary cruise. The cruise line might not have wanted to cover an accompanying spouse's costs, however, so maybe she had to drum up some extra sponsor money with her old hearts and flowers stuff. The Boner really is as tight as you described. And I thought you were exaggerating.'
'I'll tell you about the pasta incident some time…'
My ex lover's concept of a romantic dinner for two was the three-dollar all-day breakfast special at a cut-price cafe where they gave you a ticket and called out your number when they'd griddled your order. I once suggested that we treat ourselves to a modest Italian meal and was rewarded with a Castro-length diatribe on the excessive and iniquitous mark-up on restaurant pasta. That was probably when my disenchantment set in.
'Keep an eye out while I fiddle with this lock.'
I did my best to cover Harry's back as he bent to meddle with the cabin door. The corridor was empty, distant sounds of reggae music and hilarity issuing from the ballroom. It sounded as if they had brought in a DJ to replace the surviving members of the Latin band, who were no doubt claiming permanent emotional trauma from the events of the previous night. My stomach rumbled and I realized that we had forgotten to help ourselves to the buffet. This was turning out to be more of a weight reduction cruise than a literary one. I nudged the busy creature in the purple frock.
'Hurry up! I'm starving.'
'Shurrup, Lawrence. Nearly there. Just a couple more little twists and twiddles…'
Footsteps and voices echoed down the narrow corridor just as my partner pushed open the cabin door with a triumphant click. Hurriedly, we stepped into the darkness within. The door closed behind us and we found ourselves in a veritable Stygian pit of velvety blackness. Obviously, the Boner-Drippits had drawn the blind down over their porthole before sashaying forth to the ball. A large hand gently fumbled across my chest as if attempting to tickle my nipples through my dinner jacket.
'Where's the light switch?'
'Very funny, dear. It should be near the door. Shouldn't it?'
The phantom hand marched back in the opposite direction and I slapped the black space before me, my eyes still unaccustomed to the severe lack of light.
'What's funny? Here we are. Jesus Christ!'
At that precise moment, three things happened. Harry found the bedside lamp and turned it on, creating a golden pool of light in the dark cabin. The light illuminated a small human skull, which sat on top of a hefty manuscript, like a macabre paperweight. Something hand-like ran down my trouser leg and scuttled under the bed. There was a brief pause, followed by an intense exchange of glances. I decided to go first.
'It's all right, darling, it's only Yorrick.'
'Ditto, Jaybird, that was merely a tarantula.'
'I see.'
Every pore of my skin contracted and I stifled a powerful urge to scream. I'm rather fond of the reptile kingdom but large spiders in furry jumpsuits are guaranteed to give me the shudders. With as much dignity as I could muster, I backed away from the bed, convinced that a pair of beady little eyes on stalks were watching my every move. Without taking my gaze from the shadowy space beneath the bed, I picked up the skull and struck a Shakespearean pose.
'Alas, poor Yorrick, I knew him well. This is one of Boner's favorite things. Lord knows where he got it. I never did find out.'
Harry picked up the manuscript. It had to be at least six hundred pages. My ex was short on generosity but long in verbosity. I think he was hoping to find a publisher who'd pay him by the weight of his tome.
'What is this? War and blinking Peace?'
We looked at the cover, which appeared to have been typed with an old-fashioned manual typewriter. I groaned.
'Don't tell me he still hasn't got himself a word-processor!'
'The Mashing of Melody Moons!'
I turned back the cover and began to scan the first page of purple prose.
'Wait a minute. This isn't one of Boner's lurid fantasies, although the title is certainly representative of them. Look – the author's name is given as Domina Dark.'
A small sheet of scarlet paper fell out of the manuscript and fluttered to the cabin floor. Harry picked it up.
'Draconia Books. Specializing in Fem-Dom fiction for the discerning Mistress.'
I recognized the small publishing house. Their books invariably came with an image of a fierce-looking cane- wielding Cruella de Ville type on the cover. Story themes inevitably revolved around the humiliation and subjugation of the masculine sex. Not my personal cup of tea but I have a friend who is a visiting dominatrix in Queens. Her ad runs: 'Call 1 800 THE BICH.'
My husband whistled softly.
'This is Frippery's writing, Jaybird. I'd know those flowery adjectives anywhere. So, our esteemed ex romance writer and current Puker Prize winner pens sadomasochistic knee-tremblers in her spare time, does she? I always had a vague suspicion she hated men.'
I skimmed down through the first few paragraphs, which involved an incompetent 'sissy maid' and a disgruntled Lady with a riding crop and a dust allergy.
'But, if so, why did she marry Boner? He's a man and he's not submissive. Or, at least, he always told me he wasn't a bottom. Actually, he went to great lengths to insist that he wasn't. However, I've never forgotten that time he asked me to spank him. Hmm…'
Harry smirked.
