Chapter 6
The next time Peter Goldberg opened his clouded eyes, it was to stare at Una's spread-eagled sperm-splattered loins presented up to him like a ritualistic feast for the devils. The red cross-hatchings from his stinging belt had swollen into zigzagged welts and a shudder of mixed pride and disgust sank in Peter's gut. He had never hit a woman before.
So this is it, huh." he thought, staggering to his feet and fumbling for his Levi's. No warm-up, no foreplay, no feeling.. . no lovemaking. . . just raw animal sex. Wearily, he reached for a pack of cigarettes which lay on the table beside the empty wine glasses and untouched cheese tray. He lit the Camel cigarette, inhaled deeply, and poured himself another glass of wine.
The metallic whine of a zipper fastening brought Una back to consciousness and she rolled over so that she was facing the fully dressed near-stranger who minutes before had whipped and insulted her. Her long spidery eyelashes fluttered open and she blinked her eyes several times as if trying to clear her mind of its smoggy, polluting moral turpitude. A thin, chill wind of desolation wafted through her mind, but she refused to acknowledge it.
"Brrr . . . it's getting kind of chilly . . . " she murmured shakily, pulling a blanket off the bed and wrapping her naked, cum-stained body in it instead of putting on her clothing.
Suddenly, Peter Goldberg felt the nefarious claustrophobia of guilt and disgust choke him, and he wanted only to leave this place. But his assigned job with the FBI and its investigations into this new radical party calling themselves the South African Liberation Movement kept him there.
'Cause I'm a woman . . . W-O-M-A-N the record droned on and the undercover agent quickly flicked it off. He threw back his head and poured the wine down his throat, then poured another glass for himself and one for Una. With a feigned smile of appreciation, he handed her the glass.
"You're some lay, baby," he praised. "You and I are gonna have some good times together."
Una brightened, her almost imperceptible frown vanishing as she accepted the glass of wine, pulled herself up into a sitting position and realized her desire to have this man who understood her sexual needs stay the night with her. Maybe he could take a shower and they could try it again . . . anally, this time.
Indeed, the well-developed agent was thinking a hot shower might save him a trip to the VD clinic. He didn't like to be a prissy, but he'd caught some rather nasty diseases from innocent-looking women as clean and pretty as Una. Come on, get on with it, he chided himself. Catch her while she's vulnerable . . . ask questions, you idiot!
"Liked that, huh? When do you want to get together again?" he murmured, hating himself for leading her on.
The research assistant fluttered her long lashes, feeling too relaxed to be coy. "It's never as exciting the second time round," she murmured, lighting a cigarette. "You know that. . . "
She's not stupid . . . just fucked up, thought Peter. Such a shame . . . and she's so pretty, too. What a waste of brains. All that education and no hope for a decent future. Christ, I hate to take advantage of her like this . . . "
"It could be," he said. "Next time I can tie you to the bedpost and screw you somewhere else."
The girl's body trembled in masochistic, involuntary excitement at his words, but she didn't encourage him.
"I bet nobody in SALM ever did that to you . . . gave you what you really want, did they?" he probed.
Una jabbed out her half-smoked cigarette and gazed up at the handsome traitor, her moody dark eyes pools of neurotic frustration. "No, they didn't . . . they're too hung up in their own male ego trips. Especially Jackson. You ever get close to a ghetto black who's spent time in San Quentin? Can't be trusted," she said blandly, staring at the wall.
His curiosity piqued, Peter tried to sound indifferent, casual, but his attention was riveted on this girl's assessment of her fellow terrorists. "Jackson can't satisfy you, huh?"
Una's defenses were down; she was sexually satisfied and woozy from the wine. Mentally she compared Jackson's lean black body with this stranger who'd just given her the best orgasm of her twenty-five years. Surely Jackson's jealousy of Peter was based on Peter's vast, experience working within the educational system trying to make meaningful reforms . . . instead of out in ghetto alleyways and behind prison walls.
"Jackson's a good man," she replied. "He turns me on because he's brave. But . . . well.. . " Una paused, a far away look in her eye as she tried to formulate her thoughts into a succinct statement. "I.. . I'm not sure he's sincere about anything except his own ego and proving to the world he's somebody. He's too selfish to be a good lover . . . "
"How can you call him selfish if he's risking his life for Blacks all over the world?" Peter struggled to sound sincere himself, and he swallowed down a traitorous snicker. He'd sat in on meetings in his younger years with anarchists who'd made the cover of TIME, and it was almost laughable to him that some uneducated ghetto boy from East Oakland thought he could free South Africa.
"Gosh, it's hard to explain. Jackson doesn't really care about anybody or anything . . . he doesn't care if he lives or dies . . . it's like he's just filling in time." Una paused again, a faint look of horror drifting over her high cheekboned face, as though a terrifying realization had suddenly occurred to her. "None of us really care much about anything.. . do we?" She gulped. "We wouldn't be toying with guns and people's lives if we did."
"Maybe so," Peter nodded. "But this world is so damned fucked up . . . what else can we do?"
In truth, Peter did care sincerely about many things, particularly saving Dr. Tarrington's life from these loose-lipped radicals who would slip into violence if only to sluice through the boredom of their meaningless existences. Did this beautiful, brilliant woman really feel that apathetic about herself that she had to resort to ugly sex and humiliation to feel fulfilled?
Peter continued to carefully probe the vulnerable blonde about Jackson and SALM and satisfied with the information, he helped himself to another glass of wine.
"I better be going," he yawned. Noticing the shadow of disappointment crossing the girl's face, he lied. "I wish I could stay, but we wouldn't want Jackson to find me here tomorrow morning."
"Hell.. . I was hoping we could fuck some more." Una's vitiated language sounded oddly incongruous with her little girl voice and often wistful mannerisms.
Peter felt a twinge of pity for the mixed-up girl, but one night experiencing her brand of eroticism was enough for a life time. Besides, he was tired. Tomorrow demanded a lot of intensive, analytical thinking.
"Me, too . . . you sexy bitch," he grinned lecherously, "I promise we'll get together again . . . soon."
Swallowing down a lump of disgust, he forced himself into giving her a passionate good-by kiss and flicked off the light behind him. A satisfied smirk brightened his handsome face; he knew he'd made an ally with the only female member of SALM. Ambling down Telegraph Avenue, keeping a wary eye on the night people shuffling along its grimy sidewalk Peter darted into an all-night restaurant and called FBI headquarters to give them the good news.
Sometimes he suffered a pang of nostalgia for days gone by when he would sit and plot against law enforcements; but tonight's experience with these desperate, selfish, unthinking terrorists had assuaged all guilt.
Hell . . . maybe I'm just getting old, he mused, listening to the tinkle of his dime give way to the buzz of the dial tone.