Once Is Not Enough (22 page)

Suddenly he felt slightly nervous. He hadn’t gone after a girl in ages. They had always come after him! Suddenly he didn’t quite know how to put it. Maybe he was out of practice. Or maybe it was because January was a cut above the girls around town. She didn’t grope for him under the table or say, “Let’s go home and make love.”

He snapped to attention. She had asked him something.

“I hear it’s always sold out, but if you have any problems,
Keith Winters—he’s a friend of Linda’s—well, he knows a boy in
Hair
who could get us house seats.”

Hair!
Christ, he had promised to take her to see that show when she first came to New York. He smiled. “I’ll get a pair for next week. Our office has a good ticket broker. Don’t worry.”

He had to score with her . . . tonight. It had to be all set by the time they went to Palm Beach. His father said Dee’s new will had been all signed and witnessed. It was now official. Of course if he married January everything would probably be changed . . . or even if they got engaged. He was possessed with a sudden feeling of urgency. He took her arm and led her off the floor. “It’s impossible to talk here,” he said. “Somehow we never get to talk. We’re always with people.”

He helped her to her seat. Then she said, “We could always go to Louise’s.”

He laughed. “No. Carmen the bartender and I are both football nuts. We’d wind up discussing next Sunday’s game. Look, why not come back to my apartment? I have all the albums you said you like. Plenty of Sinatra and Ella. We can have champagne and really talk.”

To his amazement, she agreed without any pressure. He signed the check and led her outside. Several people he knew stared at her and signaled their approval to him. Well, why not. She was goddamned beautiful! Tall and streamlined and young and—young! He
had
to stop thinking of Karla. Otherwise he just might not be all that great tonight. After all, he probably had to follow some pretty tough competition. She must have had plenty of fancy European lovers when she was at that Swiss college. Hell, she probably knew plenty before she went there. Any girl who grew up around Mike Wayne had to be a swinger. Look how fast she got a pad of her own. And that artsy crowd she ran with at the magazine . . . people like that reminded him of a plate of worms—eventually everyone got around to doing it with everyone else.

Well, he’d get her hooked tonight. Then perhaps he could manage it so they saw each other maybe two or three nights a week. And maybe by spring become unofficially engaged. But he had to hold her off as long as he could . . .
why
did he have to hold her off! Karla didn’t really give a damn about his
future. January
was
his future! All right. But first things first. He’d make good tonight. And he’d still have Karla. All he had to do was keep his head.

January sat beside him in the cab as it sped up Park Avenue. She knew he was going to try to make love to her. And she was going to let him. She was curious about the whole thing now. She was positive that once he held her in his arms something marvelous would happen. They’d ignite . . . and maybe she’d really fall in love. She felt a certain attraction toward him, and Linda had sworn that once he made love to her, everything would be different. Linda had been stunned to learn she was a virgin. And from the attitude of all the other girls on the magazine, she was beginning to feel that virginity was nothing to be proud of. It was almost like no one had asked you to dance. She had taken her own private poll: there was not one virgin at
Gloss
. Except the thirty-one-year-old male theater critic; he had a German accent and always had an eighteen-year old girl on his arm, but Linda had said the word was out that he was a “self-satisfaction man.”

Linda was sleeping with the art director now. Keith hadn’t called in a week and, as she put it, she had to have a body next to her.

The cab stopped at Seventy-third Street. When they reached his apartment, David seemed nervous as he fitted the keys in all the safety locks on his door. Finally he led her inside and switched on the lights. She took off her coat and looked around. The living room was nice enough—phony fireplace, lots of hi-fi speakers. The bedroom door was open . . . Oh sweet Lord! A round bed and red walls! She wanted to laugh. The jock’s idea of a bordello.

He turned on the hi-fi, and the velvet voice of Nat King Cole floated through the room. Then he went to the bar and held up a bottle of Dom Perignon triumphantly. “When I heard you say you liked this, I bought a bottle the very next day. It’s been waiting for you ever since.” He began working with the cork. “I didn’t really expect you tonight, so it isn’t cold—we’ll have to have it on the rocks.” He walked over with the glass. “Well, what do you think of the apartment? No, don’t answer. I know. The living room is Macy’s version of Park
Avenue and the bedroom is the socially correct young man’s fantasy room.” He stopped as he realized that Karla had never been to his apartment, and that the greatest fantasies of his life had been realized in Karla’s bare bedroom in her prim narrow maple bed. He pushed her from his thoughts and managed a smile. “You know, when I grew up I had the typical boy’s bedroom, decorated by my mother. Pennants on the wall, bunk beds until I was twelve, though God knows I was an only child and the only time the other bunk bed was occupied was when a cousin slept over.”

He led her over to the couch and they sat down. Now Nat King Cole was singing “Darling, Je Vous Aime Beaucoup” softly and beguilingly. She stared at the champagne. Dom Perignon was for special occasions . . . She took a long swallow. Well, this was a damn big occasion, wasn’t it? She was going to get laid!

She took another gulp from the large old-fashioned glass he had poured the champagne in. He was drinking from a smaller glass. She felt a stab of disappointment. She hadn’t expected him to be so obvious . . . to try to get her drunk. No, she mustn’t think like that. She wanted to fan the glimmer of attraction David held for her, not dissolve it. But Mike would never handle a woman in such an obvious way. Oh God! This was no time to think of him. She’d ruin the whole thing. She could just see his frown—” January, I wanted you to like the man but not this . . .” She wanted to run. Franco had been more attractive than David, yet when he had touched her she had panicked. Oh, Lord. What was she doing here? She could still leave . . . But then what? Remain a virgin all her life? Tell Linda she had walked out on David and Nat King Cole and Dom Perignon and a round bed and red walls? She swallowed the rest of the champagne. David jumped up to refill her glass. This was crazy. Was she going to bed with David just because Linda thought it was the thing to do? Or to show Mike that she was a match for Karla.
Why
was she doing this? Certainly not because she was in love with him. But what did she know about love? What was her basis of comparison? Linda said the kind of love she was looking for only happened between Ingrid Bergman and Bogie on the late show. Today that kind of
love didn’t exist. Even her father had said he had never
loved
—he
loved
sex. That’s what it was all about. And she was
his
daughter. She took the glass David offered her and sipped it slowly. David was handsome. And once it got started . . . she
would
enjoy it . . . and love him . . . and . . . She smiled and held out her empty glass again. Well, he wanted her to get tight, didn’t he? He seemed elated as he refilled her glass. But he still seemed slightly nervous. He had finished his glass and now
he
was getting a larger glass and was pouring champagne . . . to the top.

The bottle was empty when Nat finished singing and Dionne Warwick began purring the Bacharach-David songs. January leaned her head back against the couch and shut her eyes. She felt David kissing her neck. Dionne was singing “Say a Little Prayer for Me.” Yes, Dionne. Say it for me . . . for January . . . I’m that girl you met with my father in 1965. I was only fifteen then and you told my father I was lovely. Tell me, Dionne—were you in love the first time you did it? You
had
to be to sing like this . . .

David was leaning over her now. He had finished with her neck. Now he was nibbling at her ear. Oh God . . . his tongue was in her ear. Was she supposed to like
that!
It just felt cold and wet. Then he started on her mouth, his tongue forcing her lips apart. She began to panic when she realized she didn’t like the sensation. His tongue tasted rough. His hands were groping her breasts, fumbling for the buttons on her blouse. She hoped he didn’t break them . . . it was her new Valentino shirt. But how do you tell a man you’ll open your own blouse—you’re supposed to be so carried away with passion that you’re not supposed to even be noticing what he’s doing.

When was she going to feel something? She tried to respond . . . she stroked his hair . . . it was stiff. He used hair spray! She mustn’t think of things like that now. She opened her eyes to look at him. After all, he was good-looking. But he looked ridiculous with his eyes closed, sprawling all over the couch. Why couldn’t they act sensible and walk into that horrible bedroom and get undressed and . . . and then what? Wasn’t he supposed to hold her close and tell her he loved her instead of just biting her lips and tearing away at her best shirt? She
noticed that the gold trim on his Gucci shoes had ripped his silk couch. For some reason that pleased her. Hey, she’d better get with it. . . . She closed her eyes . . . she wanted to feel romantic . . . she wanted to feel . . oh, thank God, he had finally gotten her blouse open without breaking the buttons. Now he was fumbling with the back of her bra. He had real expertise there . . . only now it was up somewhere around her neck. Was she supposed to make some sort of a token protest—or pitch in and help him? She decided to pull away.

“Relax, little baby,” David whispered as his head went to her breasts. He began licking each one gently and she felt her nipples harden . . . and the odd sensation in her pelvic area. He pulled her to her feet, took off her blouse with one hand and fumbled with the zipper on her skirt with the other. Ah, he was good at that too . . . it dropped to the floor. He took off her bra. She was standing in her boots and stocking pants. He lifted her up and carried her into the bedroom. She could have walked. She would have preferred to walk. Five foot seven and weighed a hundred and ten. That was bone-thin according to fashion. But a hundred and ten plus boots must feel like a ton to a man trying to be Romeo. She tried not to think of her long silk skirt lying in a heap on the living room floor. Of her bra beside it. And her silk shirt crumpled somewhere on the couch. What did she do when it was over? Walk out there stark naked and start picking up her things? He tossed her on the bed. Then he pulled off her boots and her panty hose.

And then she was lying there completely nude and he was telling her she was beautiful. Now he was undressing. She watched him take off his pants . . . she saw the large bulge in his jockey shorts. He almost strangled himself as he tore off his tie. He took off his shirt—and then, triumphantly, his shorts. He smiled with pride and came to the bed. She stared at the huge angry penis standing erect against his stomach.

“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” he asked.

She couldn’t answer. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen. All red . . . all those veins . . . it looked like it would burst.

“Kiss it . . .” He pushed it toward her face. She turned
away. He laughed. “Okay . . . You’ll want to kiss it before we’re through . . .”

She fought off a feeling of hysteria. Where was this romantic sensation she had expected to feel? Why was she feeling only revulsion and panic?

He lay on top of her, supporting his weight on his elbows and mouthed her breasts. Then his hands began to explore between her legs. Involuntarily she clamped them together. He looked at her in surprise. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s . . . it’s just so light in here and . . .”

He laughed. “Don’t you like to make love with the lights on?”

“No.”

“The lady commands, I oblige.” He went to the switch and turned off the lights. She stared at him as he walked toward her. This wasn’t really happening. She wasn’t lying on this bed, waiting to be taken by this . . . this stranger. Suddenly she realized she hadn’t gone to the doctor Linda had suggested and gotten pills or a coil.

“David . . .” she began, but suddenly he was stabbing that throbbing thing between her legs. Pushing . . . pushing . . . she felt his fingers everywhere . . . on her breasts . . between her legs . . . pulling her legs apart . . . pushing into her. . . .

“David, I’m not on the pill,” she said in a muffled voice as he tried to kiss her.

“Okay. I’ll pull out in time,” he muttered. He was breathing hard. Perspiration made his chest damp. And all the while he was trying to push that big thing into her. She felt its repeated thrust, repelled each time by its impact against a solid wall of muscle and tissue within her. Couldn’t he see that it was impossible? But the thing only became more demanding . . . again and again. It was ripping her apart. Oh God, he was killing her! She bit her lips to keep from screaming and dug her nails into his back. She heard him mutter, “Great, eh, baby. Fuck me . . . Come on . . . fuck me!” Then there was a blinding pain as he finally tore through her. Unbearable pain as if he was crunching bone and muscle. Suddenly he pulled out of her and she felt a hot sticky liquid shoot onto her stomach.
Then he fell on his back, holding his chest . . . gasping. The thing between his legs lay crumped and inert like a dead bird.

Gradually his breathing came back to normal. He turned toward her and rumpled her hair. “Well . . . was it great, darling?” He reached for some Kleenex on the night table and put it on her stomach.

She was afraid to move. The pain was so intense she was frightened. Perhaps he had torn her apart. Linda had said it hurt a little in the beginning; she never said it would be agony. Like a robot she wiped her stomach. It was gooey. She longed to rush into a hot shower. But most of all she wanted to get away. He stroked her hair. “How about giving me some head, baby? Then we can do it again.”