rising up slightly so that her nipples surfaced like big brown periscopes.
“Wayne.”
“Pleased to meet you, Wayne. I’m Irma.”
“Irma.”
“How’d you get interested in butt sex, Wayne?”
“High school. Had a girl wouldn’t do it the regular way.”
“Saving it, huh? I don’t exactly get that, but my sister’s that same way.”
“I only get a hankering for it every once in a while, but the wife’s knocked up and she won’t do it. Here’s hoping that’s temporary.”
“If it ain’t you know where to call.”
I SPENT A good fifteen minutes on cuntlapping, and then we got down to business. She was plenty relaxed by then, and her interior muscle control would have done a yogi proud. I was disciplined enough to get a good ten minutes out of her, though, and when I flopped down beside her afterward she had a peculiar smile on her face, like she’d just gotten away with some foul deed.
“I’ll tell you the honest truth, Wayne,” she said. “I like that just fine myself once in a while.”
WHEN I GOT back to the suite I found the old man sitting in an easy chair looking waxy and embalmed, staring straight ahead, and for a split second I wondered how he could be dead and still sitting up. Then he turned his head toward me.
“Ogden,” he said, voice sepulchral and strangling, “you have to help me.”
“Help you what?”
“Find me a doctor. Not my doctor. Not Pendleton, he can’t know about this.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It wouldn’t work, Ogden.”
“What wouldn’t?”
“Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, what do you think I’m talking about?” He gestured toward the bedroom with his thumb, old yellow teeth bared and tears in his eyes. “It just wouldn’t stand up. You have to find me a sawbones to fix this.” He turned to the blonde whore, who was sitting with her redheaded friend on the couch. “And you, if you ever breathe a word of this I’ll have your tits cut off.”
“I’ll never breathe a word, sweetie. Anyway, believe me, it happens to every guy.”
“I’m sixty-three goddamn years old, I’ve had sexual intercourse at least once a day since I was seventeen and it has never, ever happened to me.” It was hard to tell whether the breaking in his voice was from rage or self-pity.
“You come see me again, you’ll do fine next time. I think you’re cute.”
“Well I think you’re a succubus. I think you stole the lead out of my pencil.” He stood up, pointing at her, and then he sat back down. He turned to Park. “Get the car, Herman.”
I ELECTED TO walk. It wasn’t that far, and it was a pleasant evening, getting warm with a clear sky and the stars thick as bedbugs. I picked up an Evening Beacon out of a machine on my way out and walked with it under my arm, thinking about Irma. That had been the best sexual experience I’d had since Italy, where one of my girls—as it happens, the one I got knifed over—had such exquisite muscle control that her colleagues charged half price on the nights she worked. Otherwise they wouldn’t have had any johns at all, so eager were the GIs to get a crack at the average-looking Giovanna. I learned an important lesson with those gals, that looks could sometimes come in second to personality and sexual experience and, occasionally, to anatomical idiosyncrasy. Not that I ever intended to pimp again, but speaking purely as a client I thought I had a leg up on my competing johns.
I got home and turned on the lamp and read the paper in the easy chair. On the front page was a photograph of a wife-killer getting taken into custody. His name was Bensen, a shop steward on the line over at Beechcraft, which meant he’d spent the war at home. Some guys were glad about that circumstance—getting classed 4-F, or having a militarily essential job—and some let it stick in their craw until they felt like they had something to prove. What struck me about the photo wasn’t the disheveled look of the skinny
“Wayne.”
“Pleased to meet you, Wayne. I’m Irma.”
“Irma.”
“How’d you get interested in butt sex, Wayne?”
“High school. Had a girl wouldn’t do it the regular way.”
“Saving it, huh? I don’t exactly get that, but my sister’s that same way.”
“I only get a hankering for it every once in a while, but the wife’s knocked up and she won’t do it. Here’s hoping that’s temporary.”
“If it ain’t you know where to call.”
I SPENT A good fifteen minutes on cuntlapping, and then we got down to business. She was plenty relaxed by then, and her interior muscle control would have done a yogi proud. I was disciplined enough to get a good ten minutes out of her, though, and when I flopped down beside her afterward she had a peculiar smile on her face, like she’d just gotten away with some foul deed.
“I’ll tell you the honest truth, Wayne,” she said. “I like that just fine myself once in a while.”
WHEN I GOT back to the suite I found the old man sitting in an easy chair looking waxy and embalmed, staring straight ahead, and for a split second I wondered how he could be dead and still sitting up. Then he turned his head toward me.
“Ogden,” he said, voice sepulchral and strangling, “you have to help me.”
“Help you what?”
“Find me a doctor. Not my doctor. Not Pendleton, he can’t know about this.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It wouldn’t work, Ogden.”
“What wouldn’t?”
“Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, what do you think I’m talking about?” He gestured toward the bedroom with his thumb, old yellow teeth bared and tears in his eyes. “It just wouldn’t stand up. You have to find me a sawbones to fix this.” He turned to the blonde whore, who was sitting with her redheaded friend on the couch. “And you, if you ever breathe a word of this I’ll have your tits cut off.”
“I’ll never breathe a word, sweetie. Anyway, believe me, it happens to every guy.”
“I’m sixty-three goddamn years old, I’ve had sexual intercourse at least once a day since I was seventeen and it has never, ever happened to me.” It was hard to tell whether the breaking in his voice was from rage or self-pity.
“You come see me again, you’ll do fine next time. I think you’re cute.”
“Well I think you’re a succubus. I think you stole the lead out of my pencil.” He stood up, pointing at her, and then he sat back down. He turned to Park. “Get the car, Herman.”
I ELECTED TO walk. It wasn’t that far, and it was a pleasant evening, getting warm with a clear sky and the stars thick as bedbugs. I picked up an Evening Beacon out of a machine on my way out and walked with it under my arm, thinking about Irma. That had been the best sexual experience I’d had since Italy, where one of my girls—as it happens, the one I got knifed over—had such exquisite muscle control that her colleagues charged half price on the nights she worked. Otherwise they wouldn’t have had any johns at all, so eager were the GIs to get a crack at the average-looking Giovanna. I learned an important lesson with those gals, that looks could sometimes come in second to personality and sexual experience and, occasionally, to anatomical idiosyncrasy. Not that I ever intended to pimp again, but speaking purely as a client I thought I had a leg up on my competing johns.
I got home and turned on the lamp and read the paper in the easy chair. On the front page was a photograph of a wife-killer getting taken into custody. His name was Bensen, a shop steward on the line over at Beechcraft, which meant he’d spent the war at home. Some guys were glad about that circumstance—getting classed 4-F, or having a militarily essential job—and some let it stick in their craw until they felt like they had something to prove. What struck me about the photo wasn’t the disheveled look of the skinny
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