school had said about it, the ugly, derogatory terms they… Strangely, the thought of her request stimulated him. His body was young, quick to respond despite the exhaustion in him. 'No!' he hissed accusingly. She was trying to steal whatever remained of his masculinity. Yet her words had stimulated him. He grabbed her roughly and started to make love to her as before. That was what she had wanted first, and now he was ready for her again. She would have to settle for that. He was a man, not a pervert.
Karen was alone again, the meaningless love of her husband a trial on her now cold body. He was again repugnant to her. Once more he had disregarded her needs, her desires. Again he was using her small body as a receptacle for his own lust. The tears she had expected to shed in ecstasy fell now as her misery increased. She couldn't stand him on her another moment, using her, masturbating inside her, forgetting her in his solitary pleasure.
Again, as she lay under Allen, taking his final thrusts unprotestingly, Karen thought of the dark girl whose eyes had penetrated her own that evening, and felt sure that Pat Collins would never make her do things she didn't want to do. Pat would be sensitive and gentle with her. Pat would understand her loneliness when she should be feeling like a part of something wonderful. Pat would not leave her to die without ever letting her live.
Karen found herself wishing wildly that it were Pat with her now, instead of Allen… instead of any man.
CHAPTER FIVE
A thin youth perched on a stool, and with a high womanish voice sang love songs of his invention. His delicate small-boned fingers plucked out a thin, wispy accompaniment. His ragged blond beard did little to disguise his effeminacy to which his song passionately confessed.
But Pat wasn't looking at the boy. Her watery eyes swam over the coffeehouse once more. The dainty heart-shaped face wasn't among the tightly packed mass of pretty, darkly outlined faces.
'Boy of the woods, youth of the forest… Sob once more against the virile breast of the wooden earth. Climb the grassy crest… in my arms again find new birth.'
Pat tried to shut her ears to the pseudo-feminine singing. The coffeehouse, usually a favorite spot, was irritating her tonight. This faggot with his lovesick songs, this collection of bodies which didn't include the one she wanted. Pat hadn't been able to get the girl out of her mind since last night. Karen! Why wasn't she here?
Pat again turned her eyes impatiently to the door. Would she come? Or was she home, in bed with her husband, in his arms, letting him feast his eyes and loins on the sweetness that Pat felt must soon belong to her? Pat shivered as an intense hatred of a man she had never met swept through her. She had to have this girl! She had to! Karen! Come in now! You must! I want you! Pat moved restlessly in the hard, cushion less chair. She regarded her untouched cooling coffee mournfully as the boy finished his song and sat down, giving the small platform up to the wild-eyed huge male with the shaved skull. He began immediately to recite some obscure poetry in a dull monotone. The coffeehouse was dense with cigarette smoke, warping the room with bluish vapors.
Pat pushed her own cigarette into the metal tray next to her coffee mug. She sniffed the foul air deliberately, hoping to catch a thin whiff of soap and talcum, the wonderful odor which had trailed cloud-like from Karen's curvaceous body. Pat found it hard to believe that her longing could not be felt by Karen, wherever she was, would not be picked up and urge the girl to the coffee shop, to her.
Vibrations were in the air. They were every-where. Pat could feel a dozen or more of them right now. She had only to close her eyes to sense hostility and trust, lust and momentary love, destructiveness and creativity, grief and happiness. It poured out at her, like sand from a loosely cupped hand. Others laughed at her, she knew, but Pat was one of the special ones – she felt things others seemed to be incapable of feeling.
It was growing late. Pat knew Karen would not be coming, but still she clung to the hope, forcing herself to listen to the poetry being dealt card-like to the quasi-receptive audience. Finally, with a queer little thrill of frustration, Pat got up to leave. She didn't know where she would go, but she had to get out of this place at once. As she reached the door she felt eyes on her, digging into her lean back. Pat looked around, the lids drawing back from her squinting eyes. Maybe, maybe, somehow… she thought. But it was just Lorna Wayne who smiled boldly at her. Not that Lorna was ordinarily to be taken lightly. Pat had enjoyed Lorna more than once, enjoyed the tough-nippled breasts, the softly curving belly, the long strands of blond hair which had formed golden puddles over Pat's body. But now Lorna looked only slightly more desirable to Pat than the droning, slick-domed man, who, Pat felt, would never again be still.
'Oh, leaving already?' Lorna asked, letting her disappointment show. 'I had hoped we could get up a little…' She smiled meaningfully.
'Yes. I can't stomach all this tonight.' Pat hesitated as the girl came closer. She liked the way the long blond strands curled around each of Lorna's pear-shaped breasts. She wavered, remembering how the girl was in bed, how demanding she always was… no! Not tonight! Not with the scent of another girl, a still lovelier girl, still fresh in her flaring nostrils.
'Going for a walk?' Lorna prompted, waiting hopefully for an invitation. If a party was out she would gladly settle for a bed, her car seat, even a secluded bit of grass somewhere.
'I don't know. Maybe I'll see you later.' Pat turned to go.
'I'll be here another hour or so,' Lorna said quickly. She reached out a hand to touch the dark girl, but Pat was gone.
Pat was in front of Karen's house before she admitted to herself why she was heading away from Venice and home, and into Santa Monica. The house was dark and tiny, but Pat could think of nowhere else she would rather be. Yet, there was a trace of strangeness, of disagreeable alien remoteness to the house tonight. He was home; Pat was sure of it. And it was dark inside. Pat listened for a moment. And quiet too. His body was next to Karen – maybe on top of her, stuffing himself in-side.
The sea breeze was unusually chilly. Pat trembled as the wind penetrated her thin cloth jacket and pullover sweater. Her perfect and strong legs felt the night briskness whip through the denim of her trousers, licking at her calves and thighs like an icy tongue.
Pat knew she should leave – there was nothing for her here, not now, not with him inside. Still she took the coldness and the loneliness for a few minutes more, reaching out with her mind and drugged heart to the girl. If she could only will Karen to appear, to come to her… It could be done. If she truly believed in it… and she did.
The night remained black and quiet, unbroken by the desired light or sound. Pat tried not to feel the cold. If she did not desire to feel it, she would not feel it. Yet her flesh cooled under her clothes, even while the furnace within her was continually stoked by visions of a negligee-clad Karen coming to her arms.
Pat looked once more at the locked front door, made one last intense wish, then, after a short unrewarding wait, she started away. She couldn't have Karen, not tonight, at any rate. Still, the thundering passion she felt could not go unappeased. Pat walked faster, putting more and more distance between the house and herself with every step. She crossed her arms for warmth, and, wondering if Lorna would still be at the coffeehouse when she got there, she broke into a graceful trot.
Karen kept her body rigid as Al turned over next to her. The last thing in the world she wanted was for him to wake up! Sometimes, acting more than half asleep, Al would break his deep slumber in the middle of the night and, if she happened to be awake beside him, he would reach out for her almost woodenly. He would somehow always be ready for her. Karen hated those mindless, emotionless times even more than the others.
When Al's breathing was normal again, Karen allowed herself a small restless wriggle. She couldn't sleep – it was impossible. She found it equally impossible to think of anything but Patricia Collins. Then Karen became aware of a dull scraping sound. It seemed to come from right outside her front door. She listened with bated breath, as she thought she heard light footsteps retreating faster and faster from the house. She resisted an urge to get up and see who might be there. An immediately discarded image of Pat waiting outside for her popped into her mind. Karen wanted to tiptoe to the window and glance outside. But if no one was there… if she had made the
