Chapter 3
Rod was spending some time with Ken Holman in Ken's room while waiting for Trudy Shaw of T.V., the stage and films, to put in her appearance.
"Well," asked Ken, "How'd you like your first cash customer? Was it different from what you expected?"
"Frankly the whole thing was kind of fantastic. She made me feel like a doctor giving her a health treatment-I never had any woman so grateful after fucking me before."
"I know the feeling. You get that at first. It dies off later, and it becomes a job just like anything else. You haven't seen anything yet. They get real pathetic. They think they're actually buying love. I've had some beatup dogs plead with me to go away with them. They've got scads of dough, they'll set me up, they'll give me anything I want. Cars, clothes, the works. If only I'll go on loving and fucking them. It's real sad."
"And what about Trudy Shaw?"
"That's different. She's got no illusions. She isn't about to throw a half-million a year by keeping a lover boy. It's cut and dried with her. She's accepted the fact that she's a case, that she needs attention at least once a week. And that's all. None of this love goop for her. She pays, and so long, sonny, it was grand."
"Sounds sweet."
Ken made a wry grimace. "Yeah, she's sweet. Wait until you see her in action."
"Another thing, Ken. What about this taxi service Olga provides? Who does that work?"
"Real cagey item, that. She's got these two black Caddies. After she's been fucked, she's taken back by Cruz and Tony in time. They're two with a record long as your arm. Anyway; Olga gets a call and sets up the appointment. The dame drives to his parking lot on Upper Broadway where one of the boys is waiting for her. She parks and comes out in one of the Caddies. After she's been fucked she's taken back to the parking lot. She's on her own after that. There are exception, of course, but basically that's how it goes. Simple?"
"Yeah. Sounds real smooth."
"Olga's smoke-screened the neighbors into thinking she's married to a doctor, that all the comings and goings are just part of the business. Emergencies, you know." Ken chuckled. "Some emergencies."
"And what about our heaps coming and going?"
"Olga stops that too. We usually come out in a cab, or in one, two cars at the most. She's rushed today, but shell clue you soon. Well make arrangements to pick you up. Sort of a car pool."
"Man," Rod marveled anew. "She just doesn't miss a thing, does she?"
"Nope. One smart chick. She's really coining it."
"And her love life? She got a special boy friend?"
"Not that I know of. She's pretty much of a loner. I guess some bozo royally shafted her once, she's got a mad on for all men. But every now and then... You'll get a call one of these days. She likes to put new boys through their paces. I know for a fact that she digs dat ol' Ed Johnson de mos'. Another rumor is that she fucks Mack Calabrio every once in a while. That's real weird. She treats him like a slave. And he just wallows in it."
Now Kenneth Holman fell silent, stared sullenly into space. "Yeah. You'll learn lots in this place. Lots and lots."
Laughing, he rose. "Like right now. There's something you gotta see." He flipped the proper switch and the red light flared to life. "Follow me."
Silently they went to the end of the corridor, where there was a tiny balcony looking down on the stairs. A balcony that was seemingly merely decorative, a dead end. "I'll show you our preview room. The famous Ed Johnson in the bargain."
Carefully Ken pushed at a thin seam in the paneling, and Rod was amazed to see the panel open like a door. Then they were inside a darkened, carpeted foyer behind the spring-secured panel. The omnipresent control box blinked redly at them. A touch from Ken and it was white again. "This way," he whispered. "Don't make a sound."
They stood before another blank wall. "I'm gonna open a peephole," Ken said. "Once it's open, don't even whisper. Nobody's supposed to know we're here."
"What is it?"
"Another of the house specialties. For those dolls who like to watch. Ed's been moved into this room special, he knows what's going on, but his date doesn't. He's putting on two shows tonight. Look him over, pal. That's your competition."
There were no more words. For now Holman slid a narrow strip of paneling, and they were given a view into what Ken had jokingly called the "preview room."
It was just that, Rod's mind boggled at the concept as he saw the six-by-eight, cubicle, carpeted, decorated, soundproofed, furnished with a long davenport and a small table. But the most unique feature of the room was the two-by-three hole that had been cut into the wall. A hole concealed from the occupants of the inner bedroom by a thick, one-way mirror. Momentarily Rod was reminded of a huge television screen. Only the erotic drama being played out on that screen would ever be shown on T.V.
For there, in the inner bedroom, a pretty brunette, a wild-eyed woman of perhaps twenty-eight, totally nude was spread out on the bed, watching in terror as the large Negro undressed before her. The lights were on, obviously at the woman's request, for she wanted to see just what she was getting for her money.
What she was getting must have really been something, Rod conceded, staring at Ed's naked back. For while he couldn't see what Ed's girl friend did, he could see the way her eyes glazed in fear and wonder. The man was at least six-two, his shoulders and arms were rippling, heavily muscled, glistening dully in the dim light. His waist was trim, his legs thin, like sturdy columns.
And then, a low, gasping moan breaking from the voyeuristic female in the cubbyhole as Ed turned, let his audience see him fully. Rod understood why the girl's eyes were so wide and staring, why she seemingly cringed before the Negro. And Rod saw his "competition" and realized that he was totally outclassed. He saw a prick that was unbelievably enormous in length about twelve inches, and thick as a woman's wrist. It hung fully aroused with two huge balls dangling behind. The pubic hair was thick and crisp, all in all very enticing. Small wonder Olga had been so scathing during her inspection that afternoon.
And then, before four pairs of watching, fascinated eyes (the voyeur female having her hired escort on the davenport beside her), the Negro advanced on the bed, gathered the small, white body into his arms. The woman struggled, had serious second thoughts about her fuck adventure, but Ed wasn't about to put off. He had a job to do and he was determined to see it through.
They saw the woman's body lurch and thrash as the man slowly but steadily inserted his huge cock into the woman's cunt. They saw her mouth form into a large 0, they saw her throat pulse with unheard screams. But still Ed rammed his cock in her pussy. Until the look on the victim's face turned to one of surprise-pride, even. And lastly-of incredible rapture.
"Man," the woman in the preview room, of perhaps forty-five, expensively dressed, gasped. Her body began to writhe and jerk against that of her escort. "Isn't that something! One of these nights-when I work up the courage that bastard's going to screw me!"
Her paid lover, not the least bit perturbed, chuckled. "You do that, Rose. Every gal should know a prick like that at least once in her life."
As the bedroom drama went on, things got more and more wild with the woman named Rose. Rod was torn between two shows. Rose climbed up on her friend's lap, her back to his chest. Her passionate sighs and gasps grew louder. Now her hands darted down; Rod couldn't be absolutely sure what she was doing. Once the man with her lurched, his own hands joined the melee under her skirts.
But when Rod heard the ragged kiss of a zipper, when he saw the man squirm against the woman, when he saw body rise and toss in slow rhythm, her hands remaining entangled in the welter of lave and nylon, he knew what was happening. They were fucking dog-fashion, though sitting down.
He turned away, feeling somewhat sick. "Lord talk about foul, rotten, shows," he said as Ken slid the peephole strip back into place, came to him. "That woman, who was she?"
"Didn't you recognize her? That's Rose Henaberry. You know, the old maid who writes all those newspaper gossip columns. Her boy friend was Vince Fletcher. So you know what he's got ahead of him tonight. The doll in bed with Ed is an important exec with one of the big insurance companies in town. A gal with a big curiosity... and after tonight, a bigger cunt!"
He held his watch to the white light on the control panel. "One-twenty. C'mon, we'd better clear out. Be ready and waiting for dear Trudy."
He grinned. "Or did you want to watch some more? Maybe you've had enough education for one night?"
"You can say that again."
"Well, there's still Trudy. You pass that one, nothing!! shake you again. C'mon, pal. Back to the wars."
Trudy Show arrived ten minutes late. And when she was finally admitted to the room, both Ken and Rod saw instantly that she was well tanked up. It wasn't a careless, drifted-into drunkenness, it was a methodical and deliberate drunk. A drunk firmly intended to rout any vestige of conscience, to blitz any last remaining inhibitions.
And yet, despite her state, she was still a lovely woman, perfectly groomed, exquisitely dressed, a provocative vamp. It was as though she wanted to be desired for herself, not merely tolerated because she could raise the price. Even the alcohol couldn't conceal the mute pleading and expression of lostness in her gaze.
Trudy Shaw, thought it was played down in her roles, ripe, voluptuous women, her breasts bursting of delight her waist trim and supple, her ass and hips alive, and questing, her legs alluringly thin and silky. All of which the gown she wore-a dove gray silk with and extreme plunging back-and an obversely demure decolletage-complimented, set off to breath-taking perfection.
"Kenneth, darling," she squealed, turning on him the minute she was inside, pulling him close to her full tits, touching her cheek to his avidly, "how well you look. Aft'r las' time I thought you'd never be the same again. Tha' was fun, wasn't it? I thought I'd never ge' enough of your precious cocky. You were such a dreamboat, baby." Again she hugged him. "Whew, you don't know how good life is until you have to go without a good screw!"
Her eyes became concerned, as if sensing coldness in Ken. "You want me don't you?" She stood back, looked him up and down. "You doll," she gloated. 'Trudy knew she could coun' on you." She turned on Rod, looked at him speculatively. "Who's y'r friend, Ken? Is this Daddy's li'l helper, for tonight?"
"Rod." Ken said, sneaking a quick wink at him, "I'd like to have you meet Miss Trudy Shaw."
"I'm pleased..." Rod said. "I've been looking forward to this. I... "
"Not so much as I have," she cut him off. Then slowly she prowled around Rod, looking him over with painstaking care. "Pretty, aren't you? A real pretty boy." Belligerence crept into her tone. "But you won' get by with me on your looks. I see pretty boys like you every day of my life. I kiss'em in every show. I wan' a man who can fuck. You pretty guys are usually fizzles. Too much in love with y'rselves t' do a good job. C'n you perform, Rod? Like a real man?"
Rod found it very easy to dislike Trudy Shaw. "I'm quite sure I can make things "come" for you," he said coldly. And to remind her; "I haven't had to hand out any refunds of late."
"You know who I am? And what I am? I suppose Kenny here's told you all about me. Olga too. Did they tell you I'm the bigges' tramp on Broadway? That I dig fucking sixty different ways from Sunday? Does that make you feel superior as hell, pretty boy?"
"No, Miss Shaw. I... "
Expertly Ken interceded, sidetracked her from the semi-maudlin mood she was in. "C'mon now, Trudy, let's not be so short with the help. This is a party, remember? Here, let's have a drink, cheer everybody up. That's gorgeous dress, dear. It does wonderful things for you. And those shoes..."
"You're butterin' the ol' lady up," she blurred, "an' I love it. Kenny, you're such a sweet ol' lover. When all time it's only what under this damn dress that you wan'." She fell onto the davenport, rolled toward Rod, immediately forgetting her antagonism of scant moments ago toward him.
"Later, Trudy," Ken joshed her. "We've got all night for that. But for now. What's to drink?"
"Gibson, baby. I'll bet I've had a zillion of 'em already tonight. Ain' so, Rod honey?"
"Gibsons coming up," Ken said.
But Trudy didn't hear.
She was snuggling still closer to Rod, stroking his face with fluttery fingers. "I'm sorry," she said woozily. "I didn't mean to be so snotty to you. It's jus' a thing I get wh'n a guy's jus' too han'some. You'll forgive me won't you? You'll be good to Trudy?"
Rod smiled warmly. "As good as I can be."
"Lemme see," she snickered, and immediately she placed her hands on his prick and balls and found him, also to his surprise very much aroused. His prick was standing up, all ten inches like a soldier waiting and looking forward to action.
"Baby," she shrilled. "You too! Oh, we're all gonna have such a good time together."
They sat talking and drinking and it became more obvious that Trudy was on the verge of splitting a seam, so beside herself with lust was she. Also that she was deeply attracted by Rod, curious as to what he'd bring to the fuck orgy.
Until Rod caught Ken's eyes, saw him signal that he should drink more. A strange puzzlement filled him as he recalled Ken's earlier warning. How had he put it?"... They'll turn your stomach, some of the things they'll do. Booze helps then, too." Was that what he was getting at? And if so, what kind of capers could he expect from Trudy before the night was out?
It was a command Trudy concurred in. For seeing Rod toying with his drink, she brought her glass to his lips, forced her drink down his throat. "Drink up, honey," she laughed. "I don' wanna be the only one who's sailing. I wan' company. Tha's what I'm payin' fr. Company. Lots of everlovin' he-man company. Drink, damn you, drink!"
Docilely, feeling the liquor cut in, Rod let her feed him the whole glass. Then his own. And he felt better and better. Until now, as the woman fell into a pointless incoherent monologue in which she extolled her enjoyment of men, the unique pleasure they could give her, he saw Ken nod again. Follow my lead, his look said.
Ken put down his glass, came closer to Trudy. His eyes warned, Rod, and very delicately and slowly, he began to work down the shoulder strap of her gown on his side. "Mmm, baby," Trudy sighed, and went limp. "Now we go." Immediately, Rod began loosening the strap on his side. Until both hung loosely. Then he duplicated Ken's advances, move for move, began sliding the gown down her titties.
The built-in brassiere fell away, and the woman's creamy, luxuriant tits spilled out, jittered and lush in the soft light. Instantly Ken's fingers closed on the turgid, crinkled rosebuds, began to gently manipulate them. Rod's fingers did the same.
The woman shivered, moaned softly, then went still. Only the sound of her rapid, puffing breathing could be heard above the strains of the piped in music. Until at last: "Oh, suck them, boys. You sweet lovers, suck them. Love them."
Rod hesitated overlong. Her taunt hit him like a whiplash. "Whatsa' matter, Rod? You proud or something? Do it. What d'ya think I'm paying you for?"
He searched Ken's eyes, found his answer. Immediately and abjectly he dropped his head to her smooth breast, began to kiss and nibble the swollen berry there. While right beside him he heard and sensed Ken taking care of the other breast in similar manner. He knew now that he must follow his partner move for move. At least up to a point.
Above them they heard the woman's sucking gasps of pleasure, they felt her body surge and twist with mounting passion. As she gripped each of them behind the head, held them steadily to her nipples. But shortly she tired of the attention, her hands slid down, caught in her skirt, pulled it high. "Please, boys," she gulped. "Please undress me now."
Now deserting his station at her breast, sensing rather than seeing Ken's action, he brought one hand down to her silky girdle and explored there. An attention the profanity-spouting woman savored to the utmost, her legs rising, closing, opening in passionate, surrealistic ballet sequence, like tentacles floating underwater.
Ken began unfastening her garter clips, began working her nylons down her legs. A task that Rod joined. "Ooooh, yes," she sighed. "Undress Trudy, please. Oh, hurry. I need the first fuck so bad."
They removed her shoes, worked off her hose, returning to wrestle together with her girdle and panties. Then there was more caressing, more investigating. And when she couldn't endure another minute of it, she broke away, stood before them. 'The rest now," she cried. "Both of you. Take off this damned dress."
For a long time she stood naked before them, staggering, nearly falling twice, posing herself in drunken version of "tease" before them. Then she was running to the bed, flopping onto it, twisting herself onto her back.
"You first, Rod baby," she choked. "I wannna break you in right. You don't mind, do you, Ken? He's new prick, you c'n understand, can't you? You won' hold it against me?"
"No, doll, I won't hold it against you."
She squealed: "Oooh, Rod. Now, now. Come to your big tramp mama. Hurry, hurry!"
Her eyes never left him as he undressed, the sudden fire in them revealing her satisfaction. "You too, Ken," she called. "Come by me. You can watch while you wait y'r turn to fuck me."
Afterward, Rod couldn't tell whether it had been enjoyable or not. All he remembered was his tiredness, his amazement at the tenacious way she clung to him, the mounting desire for her pussy. And above that, the devastating, degrading encouragements she barked and moaned into his ears; the guttural whines as she achieved orgasm after orgasm. "Who... ee, that was good, baby. Real good screwing. Ken, you'd better watch out. This baby's gonna make you look like a piker."
But finally Rod did stop. Though he'd never believed it would happen, it did. And with a shattering internal collapse, he was suddenly so tired he could hardly move. He felt like someone had grabbed him by the ankles, had snapped him viciously, and turned him inside out.
Reluctantly Trudy relaxed, released Rod. "You were magnificent, baby," she muttered. "Hear that, Ken? You got a long ways to go to top that fuck performance. Well, don't just stand there."
She made Rod watch as Ken, more experienced in commercial love than he was, made the screw last for an eternity. And then it was Rod's turn again. As the insatiable woman demanded more and more prick, seemingly couldn't get enough.
Only a small candle burned in the bedroom now, as Ken rammed home his cock. It was obvious now, too, that Trudy was wearing down. But she had a last trick up her sleeve, as Rod was soon to learn.
When at last Ken shot his load, she dozed briefly, recouped her strength. When she awoke she demanded more liquor, insisted that the men drink with her. After their strenuous, back-breaking fucks-they each had light screws with her-the drinks cut in with a vengeance. Until, after a suitable interval, she said. "Ken, come back here now."
"No," he pleaded. "It's Rod's turn now."
"That isn't what I mean, lov'r. You know wha' I wan' now."
Dejectedly, slowly, his shoulders slumped, looking like a whipped dog, Holman approached the bed. Surrendered himself to her busy caresses. Until...
Then Rod was forced to witness an ass-fuck, which, up to now, he'd only heard mentioned about.
Trudy rolled over, rose on her knees. As Ken crowded behind her.
"Watch, Rod," she cackled, savoring his bewildered repugnance to the utmost. "It's your turn next." Then her voice was muffled in the pillows, as she brought up her hands to help Ken. "Oh, owoooh," she gritted. But she sighed thickly as his cock entered her asshole.
A short time later Rod was summoned to the bed. And though his stomach was tumbling, still he made himself carry through with the asshole fuck. He felt an all consuming streak of pleasure as she shrieked her joy.
"Here, Ken," she commanded as Rod continued screwing her bottom-hole, "come here. Hold my titties. Squeeze them, hurt them. Just like Rod's hurting me." Her body lurched and her face contoured into an evil, pagan grimace. "Go, go!"
Because he was, in truth, nothing more than a novice, it took Rod a long, long time. Or so it seemed. But Trudy Shaw didn't seem to mind. Not at all. She enjoyed every minute of it.
It was dawn before he finished and fell back on the bed.
"Thanks, baby," the totally satisfied woman said sitting on her haunches, looking down on him, the gray light in the room. The fact that she'd been pursuing the most carnal of fuck pleasures for almost three hours now seemingly, making her look like a haggard witch, like a derelict. She'd aged ten years since she'd entered this room. "Thanks a lot. I'll be okay for a week or so now." She turned to Ken. "Call down for a car for me."
Rod lay back on the bed in his room totally exhausted. Ken had been so right about having to liquor up before you could take what come of these babes dished out. Reviewing the night's happenings, he thought that customers like Mrs. Vivian Gabriel weren't bad. True, he had to put on an act-how could a young healthy man of his age have any real desire for one of these overaged babes? But Trudy Shaw was something else again. As he thought of her insatiable lust for three solid hours and her perverted demands on both himself and Ken, he wondered if he could go through anything like that again. He was strong and healthy, but how much of these lust drainings could even some one with his good physique take? Was it worth the three hundred dollars he had earned?
After many hours of tossing restlessly, Rod had finally fallen asleep as dawn's half-light began to seep through his window. He slept like someone who had been drugged, the dreamless sleep of total exhaustion.
When he awoke, he could tell by the daylight outside that it was early afternoon. He was amazed to find fresh underwear and a new expensive shirt exactly his size neatly laid out in the bureau for him. Apparently, Olga really did think of everything. He dressed, anxious to leave the sex-changed atmosphere.
As evidence that he'd been visited sometimes between dawn and noon was the plain envelope that rested on his bedside table. An envelope containing an all significant message. In the form of three one-hundred-dollars-bills. Without a word he pocketed it, pushed the proper warning buttons, and started downstairs. His look disdainful, his lip buttoned for once, Mack Calabrio let him out.
Back at his small, cramped apartment in the village, Rod found himself nagged by growing irritation at his tawdry surroundings. The bed, the scarred, rickety furniture. After his room in Riverdale, it was a brutal comedown. And suddenly all his lofty resolve, his vows to break with Olga Innstrom and her sin trap at the earliest possible opportunity, seemed to fade.
In the light of the fact that he'd be doomed to live in a decrepit, bug-nest apartment like this for God knows how long, that he'd have to skimp and starve merely to remain in New York, the serious promises were all at once hugely unattractive. When he thought that he had five hundred in his pocket, wages for one night's work, it seemed the most monstrous of follies to toss away a chance to go on coining it right and left. After all, had he compromised himself, had he flaunted his values to such a terrible degree? Except at the end he'd done nothing that was unnatural, nothing out of the ordinary.
He almost laughed out loud. And besides; what values? Since when have you any values, chump? Not since he was sixteen. When he and Ricky Janos had taken the fifteen year-old floozy Sally Simpson down under the Tenth Street bridge that afternoon, had torn off her panties, had taken turns holding her. Had taken turns fucking her.
Sally had wanted more cock when they were finished with her, had begged for more. They'd never had to ask her twice after that. But that wasn't the point. Had she wanted to make a stink, it was out and out rape, and no mistake. They could have just as easily been sent up.
Ever since Sally, it seemed, things had gone rotten every time he'd turned around.
But this was the rankest of over simplification, Rod raged inwardly, and you know it. It's foggy thinking. There were lots of things wound up in the decline and fall of Rod Bradley. And Sally Simpson didn't even begin to rate.
Things like the way his parents had treated him, like the fiasco when he'd tried to go to college, like the hijacking job he was conned into. Things like the way he'd found Mary Jennings in bed with two guys that afternoon in her Sullivan Street pad, drunker than the proverbial skunk, fucking like cock was going out of style. Maybe that's why memory of the event with Trudy Shaw gnawed at him so unmercifully.
And last, but not least, the way he'd met Kenneth Holman in a bar on Eighth Street one night. How they'd become, over a month or so of such infrequent meetings, close enough friends that Ken had trusted him sufficiently to tell him about the house in Riverdale. How Ken had painted vision of floods of money, payment for merely doing what comes naturally. Things like Olga's stunning examination, like the actuality of his installation into her cozy, if slightly unique bordello he hadn't mentioned.
There wasn't any one factor he could put his finger on. When he evaluated each influence singly-like the indifference and plebian stupidity of his parents, the betrayal by Mary, a girl he'd been halfway in love with, the blundering way he'd got involved with the booze heist-they didn't really amount to much. He could shrug each individual event off, discount its importance.
Abruptly Rod caught himself, dragged himself up from his self-pitying binge. Brother, you're flipping. And he recognized the fact that he was thinking in riddles. That it was only his excruciating weariness from all that fucking that was making him so despondent.
For after all, wasn't there hope of sorts? Wasn't he his own master? Couldn't he break with this degenerate life whenever he chose. Could he use these women to further his own ends? Wouldn't the money they so gladly paid to have their pussies satisfied buy him time and freedom? Time and independence with which to further his questionable acting career?
And he realized he'd been a cringing cry-baby. He was tired, that was all. If he could just sleep a little. It was foolish to think he was licked. Hell, he was still a young man; he had his whole life before him. Now, especially, he shouldn't despair. Not when he was, in reality, getting his first real break. If only he was strong enough, wise enough, o use his ill-gotten gains to good advantage.
If that's the way the world's made, he goaded himself, why in hell shouldn't I grab all I can with both hands? Pick and choose my own time to get out?
It was to these comforting if muddled thoughts that he undressed, and got into bed. Ten minutes later he was deep in a drugged, oblivious sleep. A sleep that wasn't to be shattered until seven o'clock the next morning. As the trash-can brigade charged down the street.
Rod felt a hundred percent improved when he rose this time. And after showering again, after getting a good breakfast inside him, he felt even better. He smiled to himself over his third cup of coffee to remember the despondency he'd felt yesterday. Sucker, he chided. No wonder you're always getting yourself so fouled up. You listen to that still, small voice too much. It's about time you got wise to yourself.
And getting wise to himself, he concluded, involved continuing, even strengthening his position with Olga Innstrom. It meant blunting his mind to the little uglies he might be asked to perform at her house for wayward girls. Eventually it meant a mounting pile of loot, a way of making doors open to him.
A brash smile cracked his lips. There you go, pally, he mused. Now you're getting with it. Number one, that's who you've got to look out for. He's the only one who really matters. Get hard-boiled for once, get someplace.
And he found he could review the corrupt events at Olga's with an almost good humor. As if they hadn't really happened. He'd dreamed them, he'd seen them in a movie somewhere. And that grinning, dark-haired louse there, the one piled up with that Shaw tramp, wasn't really Rod Bradley, it was some guy painted up to look like him. That guy with Vivian Gabriel; he was a fake too.
Rod took his coffee into the living room of the rundown apartment, sat in a chair, and stared into space. And was mildly amazed that even the memory of the fuck session he'd watched between Ed Johnson and the free-wheeling insurance exes, between Rose Henaberry and Vince Fletcher, didn't faze him overly much. All in a night's work, he concluded dourly. Take it in stride.
Then shortly the venal-eyed Olga Innstrom came into focus before his mind's eye. The lovely, lust-cat body bobbed and pirouetted before him, exuding a promise of dissolute, aboriginal sex, or raptures heretofore unknown, her eyes mockingly assessing him. And again Rod was stripped, standing naked before her, quailing inwardly at her deprecating stare, his ego bellowing that he should prove his masculinity to the superficial, condescending witch.
He trembled, broke from the momentary trance, wondered what had hit him. What's with you, jerk? he thought. Don't tell me you really want some of that cunt? What are you trying to prove, anyway? Didn't you get your fill, more than your fill, with the two twats you obliged the other night? Rocks, sonny. Great big rocks.
He shook his head, tried to orient his thoughts to more practical things. Things like getting dressed and clearing this dump, making the rounds of casting offices and artist's representatives. But still somewhat logy, he couldn't see it. It was a helpless cause. If, in the four months he'd been trying, he still hadn't made a dent anywhere, this particular Wednesday morning wasn't going to make any difference either. That T.V. screen could just damn well wait.
Something Olga had said to him, a thing he'd remembered yesterday, pricked the tissue of his brain like a sand burr, dug and irritated him. The one taunt he couldn't laugh off. The one truth he couldn't ignore. She'd spotted it immediately, had used that vulnerability as a deadly weapon. Was it that damned obvious? Even to people he'd only just met?
"You're a drifter, Rod, as far as I'm concerned, that's all you'll ever be."
And that, without a doubt, was the crux of things. It got down to the heart of the matter in nothing flat. It put Rod entirely on the defensive.
For it was the whole and unvarnished truth. Ever since, Sally Simpson, ever since he'd escaped high school, ever since he'd served his stretch in the Marines, he'd been on the lam, he'd been a drifter.
Never able to settle down, never able to face responsibility.
Whenever things got tough, when he'd had to cope-like with Mary, who'd pleaded for forgiveness, who'd vowed her truest love to him who'd been primarily instrumental in getting him interested in things theatrical in the first place-like the jam in St. Louis with Margie Melntire, when she'd needed an abortion, but fast; the jam that had precipitated the bootleg caper, that had involved him up to his stupid, green neck, that had realized him exactly zero, his buddy making off with the whole bundle-then there was only one answer. Get on your bicycle and go, man, go. Run and keep running.
There had been a blessed stability at the end there, during the New York interlude with Mary, he'd felt peaceful and secure with her, he sensed growing hope as she'd encouraged him in his attempts to be an actor.
There'd been other benefits also. That in the love, both spiritual and physical, he and Mary had shared. A love that for the first time in his life seemed meaningful and complete, that didn't leave him with that raw, animal dissatisfaction gnawing at his guts. When he was with Mary he was content, there was no need for other women. Which was, in itself, a radical departure, for every other girl he'd played house with-and there had been plenty of them before Mary-had left him with a jittery, vicious sense of loneliness and lack of identity.
A good, hot fuck. A fast shot of sperm. A kiss and a good-bye. Was that the only significance, the only puny gift the male-female relationship had to offer?
It had been different with Mary. And for a time he'd been happy, he'd felt he'd found home and anchor at last.
Anyway, until that cataclysmic afternoon he'd stumbled unannounced into Mary's apartment.
And again; run, Rod, run.
Remembering Mary's encouragement, the encouragement of various instructors at the Drama Workshop, he'd set out to crack Off-Broadway. One particular shop to his irresponsibility, a statement made by Ted Worth, a favorite teacher at the studio, still remained and rang clear in his head whenever he was plagued by self-doubts. The only consolation, seemingly, left him nowadays.
"A true artist's bound to be impatient with dull, ordinary pursuits, he's not concerned with such petty things as bills to be paid, dental appointments, a new suit or pair of shoes, or even the supposed responsibilities and obligations the world's constantly trying to foist off on him.
"He doesn't care whose feelings he hurts, he abhors close, clinging relationships with other people. His goals there, it blinds him to everything else, he doesn't care who he walks over to attain that goal. A true actor would knife him mother for a good part."
The statement had made a lasting impression; Rod had felt Mr. Worth had uttered it expressly for him. Whether or not it was so, Rod never took the time to figure it out. He was content to accept the words as a clarion call. As total and irrefutable excuse whenever his guilt feelings threatened to get the best of him.
There the manifesto was, for whatever it was worth.
And it was worth plenty to Rod Bradley.
Especially now, as he wrestled back his nagging doubts, determined to continue with his double life. Job-hunter by day, stud-at-fee by night.
He sighed, smiled lazily, feeling a transient well being. Tomorrow he'd make a point of going the rounds come more, futile though his attempts might be. He'd call on that independent producer, Nancy Willman, despite Olga's injunction to forget the whole thing and see if he couldn't nail something down. Something had to break someplace. And soon.
Now Rod's lips curved into an even more expansive grin. After all, he wasn't nobody any more. He was no frightened-eyed green-horn. He was now a man of substance. Employed in a going concern, possessed of a cold five hundred in cash. Nobody would dare look down his nose at him now. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was ten. The stores were open. And having had to scrimp for too long now, the money was suddenly burning a hole in his pocket. He would go shopping; he would buy himself a couple new suits, a half dozen shirts. Maybe even new shoes.
Hell, he thought, I can't go around looking like Skid Row, Class of '14 all my life. Time to live it up.
He whistled as he dressed, feeling immensely pleased with himself. Five minutes later he went sailing breezily out of the door.
When he returned at two, his arms full of bundles and boxes, the sense of well being had faded considerably. As had the size of his bankroll.
Nor was his state of mind much improved by the abrupt ringing of the telephone. And when he recognized Olga's voice on the other end of the line...
Her tone was harshly cold-blooded. "Save it up, Rod. I'll be needing you tomorrow night. And I meant rest your cock. You're going on the road. One of our special services for discriminating customers. A real orgy. There's at feast five hundred apiece in it. You can get the particulars from Ken; he'll be calling you. Got it? Any questions?"
"None that I can think of right now," Rod replied.
"Then I want you to remember just one thing," Olga continued, "this is just a job and you're the hired help as far as our clients are concerned. Don't ever forget that-and you'll stay out of trouble."
"Don't worry about it, Olga."
But as Rod hung up he couldn't help wondering what the evening held in store for him. Olga had said "orgy." What could possible be more of an orgy than had occurred last night? What would the next episode on Olga's sin circuit have in store for him?