B00AZRHQKA EBOK (16 page)

14

Boston. Ritz. 901.

An adventure in the middle of the night.

I had gone to bed at 2:20 a.m., all in. Then, from afar, bells. Church bells. (A wedding?) Cowbells. (Uncle Hagop’s?) Bicycle bells. (Me late for school.) Doorbells. No. Phone bell. Ringing. Ringing.

Light on. My phone ringing. Answer it, get it over with or the bastard will ring all night. It’s just like him…I decided on a greeting of controlled anger.

“Yes?!”

“Midge, dear.”

“What do you
want?”
It was out before I registered that it was not The Barracuda, but Alicia.

“Alicia?” I asked, although I knew.

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m sorry. I thought—”

“I know, I know. I can’t
tell
you how I loathe troubling you…” (I
adore
that lovely British speech of hers.) “…but I’ve no one to talk to, and I’m in
such
a scrum.”

“A what?”

“Battle. Verge of. Oh, dear. I called you earlier—time and again. You were out.”

(So.
Not
him.)

“Working,” I said.

“Could you spare me a moment?”

“You mean
now?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve gone to bed.”

“What of it? So have I.” We both laughed. Why? “I’m right down the passage. Round the corner, actually. Next to the lift. Nine-ought-nine and ten.”

Those elegant sounds did it. I looked at my clock: three-ten.

“All right.”

“Frightfully grateful.”

I put on my best peignoir, some lipstick, brushed my hair and tied it back. Slippers. Key. I padded down the hall to 909-10 and knocked softly.

“Yes, please,” I heard from within.

I entered, closed the door behind me, went through the sitting room and found her sitting up in bed: a canopied, four-poster, with a carved headboard and a high footboard. Porthault flowered sheets and pillowcases. Pink transparent nightgown.

“Lock it out there, there’s a dear,” she said.

I went out, locked the door, and returned to her bedroom.
Her
bedroom. How is it that some women can take possession of a hotel suite and in a matter of hours make it their own? This one had, in the four days we had been there, taken on her personality and taste and artistry. Two lamps, with pink frosted bulbs, lighted the bedroom into an indefinable size and shape. A long worktable out in the sitting room. A drawing board, somewhere. Flowers, flowers. The dressing table a dream. A Vuitton wardrobe trunk. A small booktrunk. A fragrance, familiar. Of course, it was hers. Did it have a name or was it something of her own? Later, I was to discover a tiny incense burner on a side table beside a small chaise longue. Beside the bed, a tray table, and on it, a Meissen plate of assorted small sandwiches and a silver ice bucket (engraved ADM), holding a frosted bottle of Crystal champagne. She motioned to it. I opened it (damn well, by the way), and poured us each a glass: fluted Baccarat, engraved ADM. We raised our glasses, toasted each other, and sipped. I am not overly fond of champagne, but this seemed to be something else again. She threw a pillow against the footboard and patted the edge of the bed. I sat down, adjusted the pillow behind me, and leaned back. She leaned toward me, offering the plate of sandwiches. I took one. Smoked salmon and cucumber. We sat there, sipping and munching. I did not think it at all strange that we were silent. We seemed to be in communication. The room was filled with comfort and solace. It was akin to music. Words would have spoiled it. We were sharing a soothing dream. We looked at each other from time to time, exchanging a variety of thoughts and moods. Once, she smiled an astonishingly young smile, and try as I would, I could not smile back. I was, all at once, frightened—no, apprehensive.

At other times, I could feel her looking at me, and wished to hell I had had my hair done, as planned, but canceled by that mad, early-morning call from the set builder. No matter. In this enchanting light, I would get by. She was looking off. At the wall? At the window? I seized the opportunity to regard her closely, something I had never done before.

She was not beautiful, but everything about her was: hair, eyes, brows, lips, figure. She seemed to have arranged every detail of her being. But beautiful, no. Handsome. That was it. A handsome woman. Age? Indeterminate. Forced to guess, I should say mid-forties. Strong in the jaw, and a prizewinning combination of neck and throat.

She turned and caught me staring at what I could see of her breasts. “Breasts” does not describe what she had. Tits? Ridiculous. Boobs? Of course not. Bosom? Not at all. Suddenly, it struck me.
Poitrine!
The first I had ever seen to fit the word.

“All right?” she asked, smiling.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I assured, pretending to miss her meaning.

She laughed, and the laugh said, I know that you know that I know that you know.

“I thought you might want a snack,” she said.

“I did. No dinner.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Big bulletin today.”

“Does it say, 'Alicia Marble stinks!’?”

“What?”

“That is precisely what
he
said today.”

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly. Since he said it to—”

Her voice broke. Unable to complete the sentence, she pointed to herself. She wept softly for a time. I poured more champagne. She found some Kleenex (flowered) and used it.

“Oh, bugger!” she sobbed. “I
loathe
doing that.”

“Helps, sometimes.”

“Not a bit of it…Fatigue, I expect.”

“We all are.”

“Put your feet up,” she said, “and let’s finish this. And then let’s have another. Not Crystal, though. Dom.”

“What’re you running here?” I asked. “A wineshop?”

“Nothing but the best,” she said. “Except
me,
according to he. Well, sod 'im, I say.”

“Yes.”

“Right there,” she said, “in that pocket fridge.”

I did not feel like arguing. Moreover, I was enjoying myself. I found the new bottle, opened it, and we sipped its contents slowly as we talked.

“If you hadn’t come to me tonight,” she said, “I can’t imagine what might have happened. That is to say, I
can
imagine.”

“What?”

“Up the wall and out the window, for a start.”

“You mean for a finish, don’t you?”

“I do,” she said, solemnly.

“But why?”

“Because no one, my girl, has an unlimited supply of confidence. And mine has just run out.”

“Why? Because
he
said? What does
he
know about it? He knows about counting money and driving hard bargains and hanging up on people and seducing understudies who want to keep their gritty little jobs, but not about costumes. And that’s not
all
not.”

“Come here,” she said.

“What?”

“Come here and let’s kiss, please.”

I shifted myself up and sat beside her. We looked at each other, then kissed, lightly, but long—and I thought while it was going on that it was the neatest, dearest, altogether
nicest
kiss I had ever experienced. It was soft and smooth and loving. And gentle. And the surrounding atmosphere was redolent with the fragrance of friendship. I was sorry when it ended, overjoyed when she said, “Again, please.” The second was different—more confident, stronger, still tender.

“You dear creature,” she said. “You’ve given me back a
bit
of my confidence.”

“It was there all the time.”

“Don't go,” she said.

“I have to,” I said. “I think I’m a little plastered.”

“Impossible.
Never
plastered on champagne. Tiddly, perhaps. Plastered, never.”

We laughed. It seemed excruciatingly funny at the time.

“Good God!” I said. “I haven’t shared a bed with a girl since Chippawasett.”

“And who, may I ask, was she?”

“A camp,” I said.

“She
sounds
a
perfect
camp! Chippy
who?”

When we stopped rolling about with laughter, we found ourselves lying, quite still, in each other’s arms.

I felt comfortable, more comfortable than I had been for some time. The softness of it all was the key, I suppose. And there was such a satisfying feeling of having been able to help someone out of despair. She had been so tense when I came in, harassed and rattled and hectored, and now here she was—breathing deeply and regularly—completely relaxed, fast asleep. As she exhaled, the memory of the champagne returned—were those bubbles in the air? As a rule, alcoholic fumes or whiskey breath are a prime turn-off for me, but this was something entirely different. Pleasant. I was being wafted off into limbo. I decided to coordinate my breathing with hers. (An old trick Maxie had taught me.) I could feel myself going going and quite happily, most contentedly, almost euphorically—gone.

Movement. A coverlet of some sort was being thrown over me. By whom? Alicia was still at my side. Sleep again. A siren awakens us. My robe is off. Did I take it off? We look at each other, smile, kiss fleetingly and simultaneously, turn into sleeping positions again—back to back. I am happy.

When I next awaken—half-awaken—I am lying on my back, wearing nothing—a vague recollection of nightgown over head earlier—when? My spine is tingling, my middle is a sea of delight. I drift back to sleep. I am lying in an open field—a boy approaches—he looks at me—he
is
me—he kneels—carefully unbuttons my blouse—becomes an infant, as he does so. I give him my breast. He feeds, hungrily, rhythmically.

As I come to—slowly—my nerve ends from tip to toe are alive.

I look down and see Alicia’s hand holding on to my left breast as if it were a life belt. My right breast is in her mouth—her tongue is caressing my nipple in ways I have never known. She does not simulate feeding, as men have done. Or nibble. Or bite. She is fondling it, wooing it with love and understanding.

She takes her hand from my left breast and puts her fingers into my mouth, indicating that I am meant to moisten them. I do so. She returns the fingers to my left breast, and with the wetness, coaxes its nipple to erection.

I am not thinking at all. I am lost in a bath of sensuousness and feel alive. A sound escapes me. I touch her head. She moves it to my jealous left breast and begins to satisfy its longing.

I feel her hands now, her fingers, as they move ever so gently about my body—hips, navel, thighs. Her head lies on my belly now, and both her arms are stretched high to reach my breasts.

Presently, she moves—lower and lower still. Now one hand is touching my belly, the other is underneath me. Her head is on my thigh. She kisses it, finds the one electrifying spot on my inner thigh, tongues it—gently, tantalizingly. My juices are flowing, overflowing. My place needs her. She avoids it. Her tongue greets both inner thighs and peaks and valleys of my pudenda. I feel her heaving breath on my place, but no more.

Suddenly, her face is above mine—flushed, excited, wild, ecstatic. She has spread my legs wide and has mounted me. Her cunt has become one with mine. She presses it close and closer still. Her hips begin a steady, determined, powerful thrusting. She is opening my vagina with her own.

Her tongue is in my ear. I cry out and move to meet her motion. The other ear. Neck, throat, the space between shoulder and neck. I am delirious. Her skill and control and power are prodigious. She has found and exposed the most sensitive part of my anatomy, and is rubbing it with hers. She is hurting me, but I do not care. She holds me lightly, strongly—opens her mouth and covers mine—her tongue descends deeply, and now a paroxysm overcomes her and continues to shake her. She takes her mouth from mine and cries out. She holds me powerfully and I become part of her convulsion. Down there we have become seemingly inseparable. I feel her inside me.

We lie, thus, for a long time. I wonder if it is over, hope it is not, yet am fearful of what may happen next.

She speaks, finally, but says only my name: “Midge, Midge, Midge, Midge, Midge, Midge.” Then, “Thank you, oh, thank you.”

I say nothing.

“I want to taste you,” she says. “May I taste you?”

“Yes.”

She slithered down my moist-with-excitement body, placed her hands under my thighs, spread and lifted them to expose the inside of me. Then, as she had said, she tasted me. It was no more than that—a tentative, but hungry tasting. This went on for a time—until the movements of her lips and tongue became more playful: dancing, teasing, taunting, tickling—all of which served only to intensify my own hunger for gratification. I felt as though I were about to explode.

“Please!” I heard myself say, as I lifted myself toward her.

I felt myself being rearranged—how, I could not be sure, since my limbs and body seemed to be a floating jelly.

“Now!” I heard her say.

And then. And then. There are no words. There are feelings, actions, and sensations that defy description. I only know that never before had I felt so legitimately a part of living nature. Her tongue was a vital creature, a friendly snake, as it licked and lapped; her mouth an expressive animal, as it sucked me, devoured me. More and more and more—an endless variety of strokes and rhythms. I approached the edge of climax, hovered there for a lifetime, tried to hold back—no, no! Not yet. Not now. Not now.
Now!
It all happened.
I
happened. What had been unspeakably bearable became absolutely unbearable. And yet, she persisted.

“No!” I cried.

She went on.

“Please!” I begged. “No more. Not now.”

To no avail. I am not sure of what next occurred, but I lost consciousness for a time—for how long I do not know. Seconds, perhaps. Minutes, more likely. As I returned to earth, to that enchanting bed, I found her head still lying on my thigh. Her exhalations sent a stream of cool breath to my still-quivering vulva. I began to reason out what had happened to me. Was I, after all, a lesbian? Did it matter? Or up-to-date and bisexual? I doubted it. A set of circumstances such as these or another Alicia seemed improbable, if not impossible. I felt well, satiated, strong, relaxed. Now sleep. I closed my eyes and tried to blank out, when I felt the tip of her tongue gently wooing my stiffened clitoris. I was about to protest and move away, but could not do so. The fact was that the memory of ecstasy was so fresh and young that the hunger had scarcely abated. Or was it, I considered, not an again, but simply and naturally a continuation? This time, her mouth and my place met, not as strangers, but as friends—and both reveled in the glory of it. Signals were passed and accepted. My hands were on her head. I wet my fingers and sought out her nipples. Time and again, her tongue left my bud and found its way into my vagina. How could it go so deep? It had seemed—back there in ordinary life—a tongue like any other, but the act of sex had apparently extended its design, for it was touching the inner walls of me. Then, back to where it was wanted even more—away—home. I was out of control now—crying out, thrashing about—willing her to desist—but she seemed determined to send me through the sky once more. I feared I would faint again—hung on—came undone with a sudden scream, and fainted.