Seconds by David Ely Page B

awake to find that the plastic surgeons had already completed their work. Would he be permitted to glance in a mirror beforehand, for a last look at his old face?
    But before he was quite asleep, he was aware that a pair of hands was quietly unbuttoning the jacket of his pajamas and, more remarkable still, was also pulling loose the drawstring of the trousers. In his somnolent condition, he half-imagined that he was a child, being changed in the middle of the night, and so he lazily wriggled, to help the unseen parental figure slip his pajamas off; then, when he lay naked, and felt the hands that had undressed him begin to knead his shoulders, he grew more wakeful, and decided that the woman was giving him a rubdown, to relax him physically while the pills became fully effective. However, the hands moved to his chest, then to his stomach, where they no longer rubbed but stroked and alternately scratched gently with slow upward motions of the fingernails, and then in a moment, to Wilson’s considerable surprise, they descended still lower, where they commenced a delicate massage of a nature he doubted was prescribed in the pages of a nurse’s manual. It was at this point that he turned over.
    The room was dark, for the shades had been pulled and the curtains drawn.
    â€œIs this supposed to calm me down?” he asked.
    â€œNot at first. But it will later.” Her voice still had its characteristic note of efficiency, despite the fact that she now was ministering to him on a far from impersonal basis, for she lay beside him, unclothed, with her unbound hair coiled down around her neck and shoulders.
    â€œI frequently find this necessary with our more sensitive clients,” she added, taking his hands and placing them against her breasts. “Not that I mind, really. I mean, it’s part of the job, and someone who doesn’t enjoy their work . . . well, they ought to do something else, don’t you agree?”
    â€œCertainly,” said Wilson, somewhat thickly.
    She kissed him. “Goodness,” she remarked, her hand having explored his body once more, “you woke up fast, didn’t you! Well, remember now, haste makes waste. Don’t hurry. Kiss me all over.” And as he complied with her request, she lay on her back, from time to time directing his mouth and hands with expert little movements, until after some minutes she provided him with final guidance, and they struggled harmoniously there, but only for a short time.
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Wilson.
    â€œNot at all. I mean, it’s not as if you did this every day, you know. You’re not the kind of gentleman who goes running around after chorus girls, after all, and I would suspect that your wife has passed her peak years.” She patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Tell me honestly, Mr. Wilson, when was the last time?”
    â€œOh . . . three months ago, or longer.”
    â€œThere now. You see? When a man’s out of practice, it just takes a few seconds, and then—zip!” She snapped her fingers. “All over and done with. But you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Wilson. Goodness, some gentlemen are impotent, and believe you me, I’ve really got my work cut out for me in those cases.” She exhaled a little reminiscent sigh at the thought of these special labors. “Oh, but there aren’t many of them, actually, mostly because our clients feel sort of at home with a person who’s not exactly a child. They’re more apt to be relaxed with a mature woman, don’t you think? Someone who reminds them of their wives . . . That’s the theory, anyway.” She studied Wilson’s face, “How do you feel, Mr. Wilson? Tell me. I’m really interested. As a person, I mean.”
    â€œI do feel relaxed,” he answered, honestly. He was silent for a moment, pondering. “It’s strange,” he added, “but there’s