dizzy and a little sleepy. She moved with the music, close against Lily, and something began to happen.
She felt Lily’s breasts pressing against her own breasts, felt Lily’s hands rubbing her back and shoulders. She pushed tighter against Lily, inhaling her sweet perfume, smelling her and touching her, and, all at once, needing her.
Then Lily kissed her. The room rocked, and reason fell out the window, and things began to happen in a cosmic realm away from space and time. Lily handled her breasts, coaxing the rosebud nipples into new awareness, making them swell with passion. Lily kissed the tips of those breasts, ran her tongue around each nipple in tantalizing circles.
The night was long.
And now Maggie Whitcomb was a lesbian. Now she lay on a couch in a ranch house, eyes closed, breathing shallow. She was thinking about Elly Carr. She was going to make Elly feel the way Lily had made her feel, was going to do to Elly all the wonderful and mystic things that Lily had so capably taught her.
She smiled.
9
R OZ B ARCLAY didn’t have to ask the question
There were times when you did not have to ask certain questions. When your husband walked in the side door with his shoulders slumped, with his beard drooping and his eyes vacant, you did not ask him how it had gone at the sweet old typewriter. You knew damned well that it had gone horribly, so there was very little point in asking.
Even so, she said: “A bad day?”
He nodded.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing at all. A page, one goddamned page to show for six goddamned hours staring at the keyboard of the goddamned typewriter. It’s not even a good page, Roz. I’ll look at it in the morning and tear it to ribbons. It’s a lousy page.”
“It’s one less page to write.”
“Not if I tear it up.” He shrugged. “Oh, hell. Maybe I’ll write another one tomorrow. At that rate it’ll take three months to finish the lousy book. Unless I shoot myself first.”
She thought it might be a good time to change the subject. “Hungry? I can fix you something to eat.”
“You have dinner already?”
“I took a sandwich. I didn’t want to interrupt you.
What can I get you?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Positive?”
“Positive. I’m not hungry. Let’s make love, Roz.”
Her heart quickened. “Do you … do you want to?
“I’d love to.”
She went to him, her eyes shining, her heart full of love for him. She pressed close to him, looking up into his face, hoping that it would happen, that they would be able to make love, that her body could bring him satisfaction and permit him to relax and come out of his shell.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
They went upstairs. Her heart stayed full of hope, an almost desperate hope. She needed him. They went into the bedroom, closed the door. She went into his arms and their mouths met in a kiss. She gripped him tight, held onto him, clinging to him like a barnacle to the side of an ocean liner. Her tongue stabbed into his mouth and her hips ground against his with verve which a burlesque dancer would have been proud of and which a prostitute would have envied.
They undressed quickly. They stood nude and kissed, and her blood began to pound through veins and arteries. She felt his hairy chest against her bare breasts, felt his hands stroking her back and backside. She needed him with a blind and aching need.
It had to work. It had to—she needed him and he needed her and it had to work now, had to break right for him. Maybe one could cure the other, maybe if they made love it would shake the slump loose, maybe sex could release creative energy and he could get back to work on the book.
She was not certain. She knew now only that she needed him, that it had to work.
Period.
They groped their way to the bed. He tore off the blankets and they stretched out on the bed, their bodies together, their arms around each other. His tongue stabbed into her mouth and his hands were on her breasts,
She felt Lily’s breasts pressing against her own breasts, felt Lily’s hands rubbing her back and shoulders. She pushed tighter against Lily, inhaling her sweet perfume, smelling her and touching her, and, all at once, needing her.
Then Lily kissed her. The room rocked, and reason fell out the window, and things began to happen in a cosmic realm away from space and time. Lily handled her breasts, coaxing the rosebud nipples into new awareness, making them swell with passion. Lily kissed the tips of those breasts, ran her tongue around each nipple in tantalizing circles.
The night was long.
And now Maggie Whitcomb was a lesbian. Now she lay on a couch in a ranch house, eyes closed, breathing shallow. She was thinking about Elly Carr. She was going to make Elly feel the way Lily had made her feel, was going to do to Elly all the wonderful and mystic things that Lily had so capably taught her.
She smiled.
9
R OZ B ARCLAY didn’t have to ask the question
There were times when you did not have to ask certain questions. When your husband walked in the side door with his shoulders slumped, with his beard drooping and his eyes vacant, you did not ask him how it had gone at the sweet old typewriter. You knew damned well that it had gone horribly, so there was very little point in asking.
Even so, she said: “A bad day?”
He nodded.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing at all. A page, one goddamned page to show for six goddamned hours staring at the keyboard of the goddamned typewriter. It’s not even a good page, Roz. I’ll look at it in the morning and tear it to ribbons. It’s a lousy page.”
“It’s one less page to write.”
“Not if I tear it up.” He shrugged. “Oh, hell. Maybe I’ll write another one tomorrow. At that rate it’ll take three months to finish the lousy book. Unless I shoot myself first.”
She thought it might be a good time to change the subject. “Hungry? I can fix you something to eat.”
“You have dinner already?”
“I took a sandwich. I didn’t want to interrupt you.
What can I get you?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Positive?”
“Positive. I’m not hungry. Let’s make love, Roz.”
Her heart quickened. “Do you … do you want to?
“I’d love to.”
She went to him, her eyes shining, her heart full of love for him. She pressed close to him, looking up into his face, hoping that it would happen, that they would be able to make love, that her body could bring him satisfaction and permit him to relax and come out of his shell.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
They went upstairs. Her heart stayed full of hope, an almost desperate hope. She needed him. They went into the bedroom, closed the door. She went into his arms and their mouths met in a kiss. She gripped him tight, held onto him, clinging to him like a barnacle to the side of an ocean liner. Her tongue stabbed into his mouth and her hips ground against his with verve which a burlesque dancer would have been proud of and which a prostitute would have envied.
They undressed quickly. They stood nude and kissed, and her blood began to pound through veins and arteries. She felt his hairy chest against her bare breasts, felt his hands stroking her back and backside. She needed him with a blind and aching need.
It had to work. It had to—she needed him and he needed her and it had to work now, had to break right for him. Maybe one could cure the other, maybe if they made love it would shake the slump loose, maybe sex could release creative energy and he could get back to work on the book.
She was not certain. She knew now only that she needed him, that it had to work.
Period.
They groped their way to the bed. He tore off the blankets and they stretched out on the bed, their bodies together, their arms around each other. His tongue stabbed into her mouth and his hands were on her breasts,
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