These Curious Pleasures Part 1

THESE CURIOUS PLEASURES.

BY.

Sloane Britain.

CHAPTER 1.

I was doing it again and I couldn't stop myself.

I never could. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't redirect my thoughts, couldn't turn my mind to something else. It seemed as if my brain were compelled to follow the ritual through to the end, to lick its memories like an animal nursing a wound. As always, I was compelled to go back over the same thing again and again. To what use? Maybe because remembering even the bad parts made it seem as if it were still real.

I was having lunch in a crummy little delicatessen on Sixth Avenue. "Busy Young Career Girl Blends Beauty and Bagels," the fas.h.i.+on magazines would probably caption it. Nuts.

I had a bagel in my hand, sure enough, but I felt as if I had been born old, and my so-called "career" could go take a flying leap for itself, and I looked all right but inside myself there was a lot of ugliness. Beauty, too... that sharp, too bright, poignant, hurting kind of beauty.

Marilyn. That's the name that throbbed in my head. The name I whispered into my pillow every night before going to sleep.

I am the girl who is actually a girl inside a girl.

Inside the person known as Sloane Britain there is Marilyn. I am the shrine to herself that Marilyn built.

Yeah, I'm one of those. Put me in a category if you want to. Stick a label on me. I don't care. Sticks and stones can break my bones but loving Marilyn Turner nearly killed me.

Funny, I know that what happened to me is what happens to loads of other women like me. I've read enough books on the subject. Listened to enough drunken confessions from soft-hearted diesel d.y.k.es. But, like everyone else, I think that my experiences were unique. Unique because people just couldn't feel the way I did and still go on. I did, but that's just because I didn't know how to stop.

Someone ought to write a song and call it the "Lunch Hour Blues". It wasn't so bad when I was in the office. There, I had to keep my mind .on other things. When I was outside that money-making insane asylum I couldn't think of anything else.

Remembering how we met was nice. The way I walked into her cla.s.s expecting nothing except to be bored and what happened when she came in. Marilyn Turner is about five feet ten. Lanky, big-boned but graceful. When she came in and introduced herself to the cla.s.s I thought I would flip. I didn't know then what to call what I was feeling. All I knew was that she wasn't beautiful in the conventional sense, but to me she was the most attractive woman I had ever seen. Sophisticated, self-a.s.sured, calm. Not at all what you'd expect to be teaching Contemporary French Literature in a hick college. I was going to the school because it was in my home town and I couldn't afford to go away to college. One look at Marilyn and I wouldn't have left that place if I had been given a full scholars.h.i.+p to Va.s.sar.

I don't know if Marilyn saw my reaction that first day but it didn't take her long to catch on. It probably was so evident that my Aunt Tillie would have understood. I used to just melt inside when she read to the cla.s.s. Her voice was like a caress.

Before long I was inventing all kinds of excuses to talk to her after cla.s.s. Then she asked me to do some typing for her. That meant being alone with her in her apartment while she stood behind my chair and dictated. Sounds crazy but I used to think I'd just burst with happiness because we were alone together, even though it was only a business relations.h.i.+p.

It stayed that way for all of a month.

Then there came the night that it hurt to remember, let me have that kind of delicious hurting just a few times in my life and I'll die happy.

Marilyn had been standing behind me dictating as usual. Except that night she kept putting her hands on my shoulders and leaning over to look at what I was doing. Her face was so close to mine that I could see the blonde down on her cheeks. I made mistakes right and left. It's a wonder I was able to type at all the way she was making the blood pound in my head.

When I thought I wouldn't be able to stand it one minute longer, she brought her face close to mine and looked deep in my eyes, a slow smile playing about her mouth that had nothing to do with the corrections she was telling me to make.

And then she kissed me.

I didn't know what to do. I felt all arms and legs going off in different directions. Marilyn solved the problem for me by taking my hand and leading me to the couch. She sat and made me lie down with my head in her lap.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"About the way you kissed me. I can still feel it. It's as if your lips were still against mine."

In answer, she bent down and kissed me again. This time there was no doubt in my mind why she did it. I'd been necking with boys for years. I knew the difference between a kiss of simple affection and a kiss that says I want you. I was surprised. Not that a woman was kissing me that way, but that Marilyn was doing it. For me she had always been like the star to the moth. It never had occurred to me that she could have any more than a friendly interest in me. The way some teachers feel toward a promising student who has a crush on them. Marilyn, the woman to be loved from afar as one would wors.h.i.+p a beautiful statue, wanted me!

I returned her kisses eagerly. Then we were lying side by side on the couch, our bodies touching as I pulled her closer. Tightening my embrace so that I could feel every inch of her against me.

Marilyn pulled away abruptly. Her eyes were glazed and her chest was heaving with the effort of breathing. "Call your mother. Tell her you're going to spend the night here. Tell her we're going to work late and I'll drive you to school in the morning," she said.

I made the call and came back into the living room expecting to find Marilyn still on the couch. She wasn't there but I could hear her walking around in the bedroom. I went in there. Marilyn had changed into pajamas and a robe. The sight took my breath away. The robe was black wool and her pajamas were white silk. The outfit was perfect for her. Like her own coloring. Her black hair and thick black eyebrows stood out magnificently in the pale whiteness of her face. Her ice blue eyes were bright and s.h.i.+ning.

"This is for you," she said, handing me a flimsy blue nylon nightgown.

I was horrified. Wear that! In front of Marilyn! The nightgown was cut low in front so that the sides of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s would show. The material was almost transparent. Just light enough so that you could make out every detail of the person wearing it.

"Don't you have something else?" I asked. "A pair of pajamas?"

"This is for you. I got it especially for you. One day when I was shopping in Fox's I saw it on display. I knew immediately that it would look wonderful on you. I've had it quite a while. I didn't know exactly when you'd be wearing it but I knew that some day you would." Her eyes were, laughing at my discomfort but her voice was hard with command.

I went into the bathroom to change. The mirror proved that Marilyn had been right. The nightgown was made for me. I'm a little over average height and a little plump around the edges. Call it baby fat if you want but the boys seemed to like it. "You pack a lot of woman," a man once told me. I thought it was one of the nicest compliments I had ever received.

The nightgown came down to my ankles in soft pleats. It made me look taller and slimmer. The bodice was tightly gathered under the b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

My eyes are a kind of peculiar blue-green. Like the ocean, one color predominates over the other, depending on the lighting and the surroundings. I've got the craziest circle of orange around the iris. Like a dog's eyes. Anyway, the nightgown made my eyes look a deep blue. That's good with my long auburn hair.

But I felt ridiculous. I hadn't yet gotten out of the stage where I walked like I was carrying a baseball mitt between my legs. My posture was lousy. A hangover from the days when I had been the tallest kid in town. I stopped growing when I was fifteen and boys began growing taller than me. But before then I had felt like a freak. So I stooped. I was still taller than the boys my own age but I hoped that no one would notice. The effects of that period still hung on. I was round shouldered and, if I wasn't concentrating on my posture, looked like a backward S.

The nightgown was made for the kind of woman who moves like a dancer. I felt in it about the way a man would feel in an evening gown.

I opened the bathroom door and called out to Marilyn to hand me a robe.

"You won't need one," she answered. "The apartment's warm."

I told her I'd feel ridiculous parading around in just the nightgown. Her answer was brief and to the point. "Don't. Feel beautiful," she said. When I finally forced myself to come out of the bathroom and stand before Marilyn everything changed. The naked look of appreciation and desire on her face did something to me. I felt like I was truly a woman for the first time in my life. You don't feel that way just in your head. Without thinking about it, I became more graceful and more self-a.s.sured.

Marilyn had made c.o.c.ktails while I was changing.

"Do you drink?" she asked before handing me mine.

"Sure. When I'm out on dates." Big deal Sloane Britain drank because it was the thing to do. You know how kids are. Those of us who could pa.s.s for twenty-one made a big production out of guzzling all we could lay our hands on. At eighteen I looked twenty-three. There are some advantages to extra weight and heavy-lidded eyes.

It was a martini. My first. I had heard about what happened to girls when they drank too many martinis. Those stories were second in popularity in high school to the ones about the girl who took dope. Ridiculous. I was born with a hollow leg as far as alcohol is concerned. I had always been able to drink a lot and still keep my head, so why should tonight be any different?

Marilyn put some records on the phonograph. Soft, silky music with lots of violins. Then she came over and sat next to me on the couch. She didn't say anything. Just sat there looking at me. At the way my body was outlined in the sheer gown.

There are two, no three places on a woman's body that sit up and beg when they want to be touched. I felt the tips of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s getting hard and pus.h.i.+ng against the transparent gown. All Marilyn was doing was looking at me and this was happening! I tried to cover my embarra.s.sment by gulping down my drink.

Marilyn made more. I think I must have had four or five martinis that night. I don't remember too much about the drinking part.

"Marilyn, please kiss me again."

"No. I think we ought to talk first," she said.

"I won't talk unless you kiss me first," I said. Yeah. I could hold the martinis. Like h.e.l.l I could. I heard my own voice and knew I was saying ridiculous things but I didn't care.

She laughed and leaned over to kiss me. But when I tried to press my body against hers, she drew away. "How old are you, Sloane?" she asked.

"Eighteen. I thought you knew. How old are you?"

"Thirty-four. Does that bother you?"

"No. Why should it?"

"Because I'm nearly twice your age," she answered. "I could be your mother."

If she only were, I thought. If I could live with Marilyn and be close to her like a daughter. I'd do whatever she wanted instead of the exact opposite as I did with my own mother. I was a real doll at home. I thought I was a.s.serting my maturity if I behaved rudely toward my parents.

There was one thing I had to know. "Marilyn, have you ever loved a woman?" I asked.

"Yes. With varying degrees of intensity I've loved several. There hasn't been anyone in a long time, though."

"What about men?"

"I like men too. Someday I'm going to cut out all this nonsense with women and get married. There's no security or chance for real happiness with women."

The bitter tone in her voice tore at my insides. Marilyn had been unhappy. I determined right then that I would do everything in my power to make sure that she would never feel unhappiness again.

We talked for a long time. Marilyn asked me questions about myself. She wanted to know all kinds of things about me. In particular, she seemed interested in my s.e.xual history. There wasn't much to tell. I was no virgin. That little detail had been taken care of the previous summer. A boy I had known most of my life who had cried like a baby when it was over. I had just sat up and said, "Well, that's that." I was a real doll in those days.

She asked me about women. I knew it would be wrong to tell her that I had never even thought about it before I met her so I lied and said that I'd had crushes on teachers before but nothing had ever come of it.

I knew what she was getting at. She wanted to know if I realized that my feeling for her had a name. I knew and it didn't bother me a bit. One thing I have to thank my mother and father for is the way they brought me up to believe that I had a right to go after happiness no matter what form it took.

It was late when we went to bed. About 12:30. I hadn't realized how much the liquor had affected me until I tried to walk into the bedroom. My knees felt weak and the room seemed to be slowly spinning around me. I finally managed by fixing my eyes on the headboard of the bed and just aiming toward that.

Marilyn switched off the lamp on the table beside the bed and turned toward me. She gathered me in her arms. "Baby, baby," she whispered, "I've waited so long for this." Her lips were so hot they felt as if they would burn me. I had read about that in books but didn't believe that it could happen in real life. Again and again she kissed me. All over. On my mouth, my forehead, my eyes, my ears, my neck.

I felt as if there were a brilliant sun of glory inside me that was growing bigger and bigger until it would burst and shatter me into a million little pieces of joy.

Then Marilyn was coaxing the nightgown up over my body and off me. She took off her pajamas. Now I could feel her lovely smooth skin. No rough hairs and hard muscles like a man would have.

Her long slim ringers traveled all over my body. I was trembling and nearly delirious with pleasure. Then she trailed her mouth down my neck and chest. Shocks of pleasure went through my entire body.

Then she bit. Not too hard but hard enough to hurt with a pain that was more pleasure. I gasped.

Marilyn moved. Her lips were everywhere. Her soft cheek caressed my thighs.

Deep within me the joy spread. Violent spasms shook my body. As my whole being convulsed in ecstasy I could feel Marilyn sharing my miracle.

The alarm clock rang in the morning. Not to wake us. We had not slept. It had been a night of wonder followed by greater wonders.

We dressed and went to school. We weren't tired. There are some activities that give you more energy than they take away.

I broke off my reverie. Time to go back to work. I paid the check for lunch with my last dollar. The change and some coins I found in my coat pockets made seventy-five cents. Enough for transportation back and forth to work until Friday, when I'd get paid. Someday I'd have to grow up and learn how to manage money. I had to. I had to grow up in a lot of ways.

CHAPTER 2.

"Good afternoon. Harold Broadman Office."

"Skip the good afternoon bit, it takes too long to deliver. Anything happening?" the weary voice on the phone inquired.

"Nothing yet," I answered.

"O.K. Let me talk to Judy."

I switched on the intercom system and prepared Judy. "Mr. Broadman for you. He sounds like last night was a bad one."

"Yeah, I know. I've already talked to Karen," Judy said. "Tell you about it when I'm finished with Happy." She switched off the intercom and picked up the phone.

I went back to the elaborate doodle I had been drawing before the phone rang. I covered sheets of note paper with the d.a.m.ned things. What else could I do in an office where it was quiet as the tomb one minute and the next minute everybody and his uncle was demanding attention?

Judy finished her conversation and came out into my office. Not exactly "my office". Actually, it was the reception room where I had a desk big enough to sleep on, the switchboard and one of those fancy typewriters that did everything short of lick stamps. It was a perfectly gorgeous layout. Like something out of a movie set. The reception room was papered with real honest-to-goodness gold lame wallpaper. There was a thoroughly impractical deep-piled black rug on the floor and a chartreuse couch. In addition, there were a couple of soft black chairs and low tables holding huge lamps that gave off practically no light. On the wall behind my desk were pictures of Harold "Happy" Broadman's clients. What I wouldn't have given to have a setup like that in my own apartment.

Judy flung all four feet eleven inches of herself onto the couch. "Happy says you're catching on fast," she said.

"Like I'm glad he thinks so," I said.

"Like we're glad you're glad," she said.

"So what's the story for today?" I asked. "I better be prepared. The harem should start calling any moment now."

"Happy was out with Sylvia last night. He told his wife that he had to go to a private showing of a new pilot film. So when Karen calls either put her right through to me or give her the usual song and dance about how you were at the showing too and how lousy it was. Be careful of Pat though. She's beginning to smell a rat. She might try to trip you up and get some info out of you. Just tell her you don't know where Mr. Broadman was last night and when he'll be in this morning. She knows you're new and might try all kinds of tricks to get around you. Be on guard."

The phones started all ringing at once, so Judy got up and went back to her own office. The calls were the usual garbage. When would Happy be in the office and had he said anything to me about this or that deal? Yes, Happy had told me to tell you all to go to h.e.l.l and no, I wasn't going to let them know I knew anything about their business. That was my job. To be gracious and noncommittal. It was always, "I'll have Mr. Broadman call you when he comes in." He wouldn't, of course. Not unless they were real important or one of his drinking buddies, that is.

Silence. From nowhere, as if somebody had suddenly put a deadener on the telephone. It was always like that. Either everybody called at once or there were no calls at all. So I drew doodles.

One-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon in February of 1961 and I was working in the office of one of the biggest television producers and agents in New York. What was I doing there? Making money, naturally. But there was more to it than that. I wanted to write plays and I figured that an office like Harold Broadman's could teach me a lot about the techniques of production and also give me a chance to meet people who could help me once I'd gotten a good script ready. Also, I like to eat, and there are more obnoxious ways of making a living.

The office was on Central Park South which, in case you don't know, is one of the pos.h.i.+est streets in this burg. Posh was the word to describe everything about the place.