Chapter 4
TOM GETS PITY
That Friday at noon, Mrs. Sinclair asked Tom if he would like to go with her to the luncheonette.
"Are you going shopping again?" he asked as he recalled the previous day's lunch hour.
"No, I'm just going to get some lunch. I thought you might like to come along."
Tom accepted and, when she was ready, they left. Most of the others went to the same place which was directly across from the office.
And on that Friday. Tom and two other girls from the office, sat with her in the luncheonette while she spent the majority of the time retelling her problems. She noticed that the only one truly interested was Tom. He was listening intently.
As he ate, he felt sorry for her. At first he thought his lunch was disagreeing with him, but soon he realized that he always felt this when Mrs. Sinclair talked about her problems.
He also noticed that, now, she was talking directly to him, instead of swinging her head to include the two others.
Upon leaving to return to the office, the two secretaries walked together, leaving Tom and Mrs. Sinclair alone.
"Tom," she said pathetically, "I'm always so lonely."
"Gee, ma'am, I wish I could help you."
"No one can help me." She pulled a handkerchief from her purse as her eyes grew moist.
"Don't cry."
"I'm sorry. I'm always burdening you with my problems. It's just that I have no one else to turn to."
"What about your daughter?"
"She's much too young to understand."
"Haven't you ever considered remarrying?"
"Oh, Tom, who wants to marry a thirty-nine-year old widow with a grown daughter? Besides, I'm not as pretty as I once was."
"I think you're very pretty."
"You're just saying that so I'll feel better."
"No, ma'am! I really mean it. If you weren't older than me, I'd ask you out."
"You would?" she said. "You really would?"
"Yes." He sensed vaguely that he was getting himself into something beyond him at the present.
They were walking slowly. She reached up and tucked her arm through his arm.
"Would you like to take me out?"
"Well... I mean,... It's just that..."
"I thought so. You were trying to comfort an old lady."
"Stop calling yourself that! You look as young as any of these girls in the office. And prettier than all the ones I ever went out with."
"Thank you." She sounded sarcastic.
"No! I really meant that! And just to prove it to you, I will take you out!"
"What?"
"I mean, ma'am, I want you to go out with me tonight. That is, provided you can."
"Why ... of course I can! I'd love to!"
"Good. Then give me your address so I can pick you up. What time?"
"Oh, but I have a problem." She began to cry again.
"What's that?" He hoped it would be a major one, forcing her to stay at home that night.
"My daughter. If I go out that means I'll have to leave her home alone. And if I know her, she'll be out of the house just as soon as I leave. And she never gets back until after two in the morning."
"Well, what can you do?"
She was silent as they walked along, still arm in arm. At the corner to the office door, she stopped. Her face beamed.
"I know! I'll make dinner for you at my house tonight! Then we can sit and listen to records or talk or play cards. Just so long as I can keep an eye on her."
Tom nodded in agreement. She gave him directions to find her house. And they agreed upon eight o'clock.
Returning to the building, Mrs. Sinclair was elated that she would now be having a guest after so many lonely years. And, although she realized that it was just Tom, she also understood that he was better than nothing.
The rest of the afternoon Tom spent pondering over the invitation. He expected to be bored stiff and, most likely, nothing at all would come of it, except hearing another three hours of her problems-not that they were boring, but he had heard all of them before. Well, he thought, I'll dress real sharp for her. And I'll show her that, although I'm dumb, I'm still good-looking.
At five o'clock she waited for him, cornered him and reminded him about the date. He promised not to be late. And they went in their separate directions.
At home, his mother had dinner prepared for him and on the table. He told her to forget about it.
"You're not going to eat out tonight?" "No, ma. I got a date with a girl and I'm going over to eat her place."
"What's the matter? My food ain't good enough for you anymore? And you got to go eat at some girlfriend's house?"
Tom looked at his mother. Every time he wanted to eat out, he got the same argument. But not Dig! She continued, "You know what that means, don't you? I have to throw away all that good food."
"Save it for Dig."
"Digby is going to the movies with Gayle."
"It figures." He turned his back on his mother and walked into his room. Another thing to simmer down inside of him. Now he was having trouble getting out to eat. But not that bastard Dig! Oh, no, he thought. Not darling Dig! But he said nothing.
By the time he was ready, he was mad inside and had a headache. So he gulped two aspirins with water and told his mother on the way out he would not be back until late. Tom had made tentative plans for the evening, already.
He thought he would go to her place, eat and be pleasant. He decided to leave at the first opportunity and go to Sam's. He was going to get plowed tonight!
Driving back into the city, Tom felt foolish because the way he was dressed irritated him. When he was near to her place, he almost turned back to change. His hip-hugging bell-bottom trousers and white Edwardian jacket didn't seem to fit the occasion of dinner with a middle-aged widow.
But it was too late to turn back. Besides who was there to care what he looked like. She usually saw him dressed as he was, so he could not impress her. The only other person to be impressed was her daughter, and he did not care what any fourteen-year-old thought.
He saw the light turn yellow, and stepped on the gas to beat it before it turned red. Making it, he was satisfied with his control of the vehicle. In fact, handling the car was a pleasure for him. He knew exactly how to get that extra ounce of speed out of her, and he would occasionally race other cars on the streets. He usually won, too.
The apartment building was one of a cluster of high-rise apartment houses located on Manhattan's lower east side. Each one was like the one before, except that the street numbers were different.
But they were usually hidden from view, in the time-honored tradition of confusing all but the natives as to a particular building's specific location. So, he wasted precious time locating her building.
Pulling to the curb, he asked a pedestrian for number fourteen and the man said it was around the bend and off the road. Tom thanked him and drove around the corner. Turning the corner, he saw three apartment buildings set back and off by themselves.
He knew that one of the three was the one, but he would have to investigate all three before finding the correct one. He parked the car and, locking it, went toward the first one.
The number was above the entrance, but not readable as there was no lighting directed at it to illuminate it.
He was lucky, though. On entering the first building and checking the mailbox listings, he found one marked with her name. It was her number, too. He noticed the lobby smelled of old and decaying garbage-similar to where he lived.
He supposed that all apartment buildings must smell alike. The furnishings were shabby and worn, like the wallpaper and the general appearance was one of shoddiness. He saw that the fake flowers grew out of synthetic dirt, and the floor was littered with cigarette butts and ashes.
He went to the elevator and passed the parcel post room, seeing row upon row of labeled tin boxes sunk into the walls. He pressed the button and the elevator door opened immediately. It smells, too. People, he knew, who lived in these places, like his parents, were more interested in the lower rates than in special services. Hence, the smells, the dinginess and lack of care.
With nothing else to do until the ancient slow machine reached the ninth floor, he surveyed the four walls surrounding him. He noticed the gouges in the walls, made by pranksters and hasty movers. The control panel was so dirty, that he had to count the buttons to be sure of punching nine. There was no working ventilation, so he snubbed out the cigarette before he smothered himself.
When the door finally opened, he held the elevator and looked around to see if he had the correct floor. He found no evidence that he was on a particular floor, so he took a chance. Getting out, he proceeded along to locate Apartment 'G.' As the numbers seemed to be haphazardly placed, he had to read each door as he passed, some of which had no letters or numbers at all.
Pressing the bell in the door he found to be marked 'G,' he waited for the little slit to open. The lever went down and he was being viewed from the other side of the flimsy wooden panel. Then the door swung open and Mrs. Sinclair stood there.
"Hello, Tom."
He nodded and walked in. She stepped aside and closed the door behind him. He walked into the living room, which was the living room in apartments such as these were. There were other doors, presumably leading to kitchen, bathroom and at least one bedroom or maybe a closet.
"How've you been, Tom?" You'd think she had not seen me for months, he thought to himself.
"Fine, thank you," he replied.
She turned and followed him in. "Velma! Velma! Come in here, please."
And from the bedroom walked a petite young redhead. She must have just topped five feet in her heels. And she could not possibly weigh more than ninety pounds. Fourteen, he wondered, was that what she had said?
"Tom, this is my daughter," Mrs. Sinclair said.
"Hi, Velma."
"Hi," Velma said, putting her hand out.
He took her tiny delicate hand in his, being careful not to squeeze it. He was afraid he would hurt her, and his shake was like a dead fish grip.
"Why don't you and Velma get acquainted while I finish dressing?" So for a few minutes, Tom and Velma talked of trivia. She was vivacious and outgoing, while Tom asked and probed, using only the necessary amount of words. He was asked the usual questions by her and asked them in return.
His answers were short, hers turned into well-constructed monologues. He noted the dining room table set for three.
Finally, she appeared with half melons filled with whipped cream. "Let's get started." She placed the food on the table.
When Velma and Tom rose, it could be seen that, as far as height went, they were unsuited. She was just five feet, while he was just lacking six feet.
After the melon, they had lamb chops and a salad with a Russian dressing. This was followed by eclairs and coffee. Velma, all through the meal, glanced at the clock constantly until her mother noticed, too.
"What's the matter?"
"Mickey's picking me up. We're going to the movies."
"I thought you said you would stay home tonight with me."
"I was. But he called me up today and asked me out. I said okay. Okay?"
"All right. I don't mind you going out with Mickey. But I want you home by midnight. Understand?"
Velma nodded. All through dinner, whenever Tom talked to Mrs. Sinclair, he addressed her formally because he didn't know her first name.
At eight-thirty the bell rang. Velma jumped up, excused herself, grabbed a coat and ran out the door.
"Good night!"
"Quite a little girl I have there, don't you think?"
"Yes. She's very pretty for such a young girl. I'll just bet she grows up to be just as pretty and as nice as her mother."
Mrs. Sinclair blushed.
"Well, ma'am," he said, standing up, "thank you for dinner. It was really good."
She panicked. "Where are you going?"
"I figure I better be going, ma'am."
"Tom, please don't call me Mrs. Sinclair. Call me Alicia. That's my name. What's this business of your wanting to go? I thought you'd stay at least for a while." She looked directly at him, pleading. "Please stay."
"Well, okay."
"What's your favorite music?"
"I like anything, really." He rose as she did. "May I help you with the dishes?"
Smiling, she rose and picked up some of the dishes, too. Following her into the kitchen, he went back and forth with dishes and silverware and glasses while she got ready to wash. She washed and he dried. They did not talk much, but there were exchanged many smiles, looks and the like.
When they were done, and everything put away, he followed her into the living room again.
"I bet you like rock and roll best," she said over her shoulder.
"Yes."
"Unfortunately, I don't have any. Would just music do?" "Fine."
She walked over to the stereo and put a group of records in the machine and turned it on. Adjusting the bar and needle, she put the top down and turned to him.
"Would you like a drink?"
"Sure. Anything you have."
"Scotch, rye, brandy, vermouth? You name it, I have it."
Vaguely, it bothered him that a widow with a teenage daughter would or should have such a complete stock of liquor. He shrugged. People like all sorts of things, he mused.
"I'll have a scotch and water, please."
"Alicia," she reminded him.
"Alicia," he repeated. Going back to the kitchen, she returned shortly with two large glasses filled with scotch, water and ice. She handed one to him and sat down on the couch. He sat down too, on the other side of the couch.
"Do you like the apartment?"
He moved his head around, viewing the arrangement and furnishings. "Very nice."
Quickly, she gulped her drink down. Returning to the kitchen, she filled it again and, when she came back, Tom noticed that it was darker-all scotch with just the ice melting in it.
Within seconds, she had drunk most of that, and seemed to relax. She moved closer to him and whispered softly into his ear.
"You know, Tom, I've been alone. I've been without a man for six years. I think I'll go crazy sometimes if I can't get someone to love me again."
Tom pulled away from her, feeling uncomfortable in this new situation. He had never expected her to admit to him that she might be lonely for male company.
"Tom," she continued, "what I mean to say is that I've watched you over the years grow from a boy, unsure of himself, into a man, confident. After eight years in that office, I've often wondered what it would be like to go out with you."
She paused and looked at him. "Naturally, I couldn't expect you to ask me out. I'm much older than you. My god! I'm fifteen years older than you."
"Mrs. Sinclair..."
"Alicia."
"Alicia, listen. I'm much too young for you. Besides, it's getting late. I think that I had best be getting home."
Now, he knew. At least indirectly. She wanted him to be her lover. But she was a mother and a friend. He couldn't be her lover. He didn't see her that way.
As he stood up, she pulled on his jacket heavily. Caught off balance, he fell back onto the couch.
"Don't go! I'm tired of being alone all the time. I want you to stay at least a little while longer. Please, Tom, do a lonely woman a favor?"
Feeling sorry for her, he decided to stay for just a bit longer. But no more than an hour, he told himself decisively. "All right. I'll stay. But no fooling around."
"Fooling around?"
"Nothing." He could say no more, for it would only be getting himself into trouble by saying exactly the wrong thing.
"What did you think? That I was going to rape you or something?"
"No. I just meant that it's different and unusual for me to be with an older woman who is not my mother."
"Why? Is it because I'm ugly? Or because my tits aren't so firm as they used to be? Or is it because I've dried up into some sort of prune?"
"No," he repeated apologetically. "No!" he said again and again with positive emphasis. "You're a very nice-looking woman. As good as or better than most of the girls." He shook his head to emphasize.
"Thank you." The two drinks, taken in quick succession, were beginning to have their effect. She was not quite in control of her muscles. "Would you like another drink?"
Not having finished his first, he nodded no. Nonetheless, she took the glass from his hand and managed to spill a small amount of liquor on his pants. He jumped up and wiped the liquid from his pants. But he knew it was useless to wipe it away that way.
"Oh, damn. I'm sorry." She tried to brush it away with her hand.
He pushed her hand away. "Get a napkin or a towel."
She carried both glasses into the kitchen, returning quickly with a large dish towel and a small basin of water. She handed both to him. Taking them from her, he wiped the rest of the stain that he could get out.
While he cleaned up the spill, she leaned against the sink until she had regained her balance. Then she began fixing new drinks. She filled his glass with chips and poured pure scotch over them.
Pouring an ounce into her glass, she drank it down. She felt it burn as it went down, and she knew it would only increase her sensitivity. Then she filled her glass again, as she did his.
"Remarkable," she said aloud to herself. "Really remarkable how they make ice these days."
She realized that what she had just said was nonsense. "It's the scotch," she said aloud again.
She walked back into the swaying room with a drink held carefully in each shaking hand. She landed on the couch with a thud, but miraculously she did not spill a single drop.
Tom closed his eyes and waited for the flood. He was startled when she landed and left him and herself dry. He saw she could not navigate to the table, so he reached out and took one from her.
"No. No'tha' one. Thish one," she said in her drunken tone. And she handed him the other glass. So, he took the preferred one, wondering what the difference was. Tipping it to his lips, he stopped as the smell of straight scotch hit his nose.
He would be at least high if he finished this one, he knew. Tasting it, he found it to be strong. He put it down carefully but casually on the table.
"Come," she said and tapped the pillow next to her. "Come and talk to me." She looked at him. "Talk to me like a friend. We're not in the office and you're free to be an equal."
Equal? What the fucking hell made her think she was better than me, anyhow, he thought.
"You come and sit next to me!"
As he was sitting on the chair, now, he realized it was a stupid thing to request. Nonetheless, she, drink and all, rose and came over to sit on the arm of his chair. She forced her body to remain upright, even though gravity seemed to be winning in its attempt to pull her down onto the floor.
He pulled away from her so that she could straddle it sort of side saddle as he had asked her to come. He hoped that she would find it uncomfortable and would be forced to move back to the sofa.
Instead, she put her arm around his shoulders and was able to balance quite nicely. He froze with the touch of her hand on his left shoulder.
"Are you all right?" She swayed as she sat.
"Sure, I feel fine." Actually, she felt sick. She'd drunk too much liquor too fast; but she was determined to follow through.
"You sure as hell don't look too good. Frankly, you seem to be drunk. Maybe you should go lie down and sleep it off."
She giggled and then laughed aloud. "Will you come to bed with me?" Her words embarrassed him. For a few seconds he could not answer. Finally, he was able to mutter a muted 'no.' By this time she was rubbing the palm of her hand around the top of his left arm.
"I guess I had better leave," he said. Her forwardness scared him.
"I thought you were a man," she said, pulling away from him. "You're nothing but a boy! I want you to make love to me. Treat me like a woman, not your superior officer." She looked at him in disgust.
"I'm trying to be respectful."
"Kiss me," she begged, bending forward and trying to force her lips onto his.
"Stop it! For crissake! You're acting like the little child, now."
She pulled away from him, but as she did, she swayed from side to side. He grabbed her around the waist and led her to the couch. Placing her gently on the cushions, he let her head fall gently against the back of the piece.
"Leave me alone!"
"Listen, Mrs. Sinclair, I don't know what it is you want from me. But we ain't got anything in common. I'd better go."
"No! Don't go!" She struggled into a semi-upright position.
"What am I supposed to do?" he whined.
"Won't you even give me a little kiss?" Sober, Tom realized that there was no harm in kissing her, except that it would be different kissing an older woman. But this one did want him to kiss her.
"I won't drink anymore." She folded her arms across her tits as though swearing on an oath.
"I'll make you some coffee." He left the couch for the kitchen. After several minutes of searching, he found her coffee pot and coffee. He filled the pot, poured in the coffee, fitted the thing together and thought about her.
He was shocked at the sudden change in her just because of a couple of drinks. She was always quiet and sedate in the office. She never bothered anybody and kept to herself. He was, actually, the only person with whom she confided in, he thought.
He returned to the living room, to wait for the coffee. She heard him and opened her eyes and stared at him. "I'm sorry. I made such a fool of myself," she moaned. Tears rolled down her cheeks and her eyes shone with the glimmer of outpouring emotions and liquid.
"That's okay, ma'am . .. Alicia," he said gently. She went on crying and he wanted her to stop. He hated to see a woman cry. He had noticed that they cried for the strangest reasons and at the silliest things.
He. thrust his hand into his back pocket and pulled out his clean handkerchief.
"Here, wipe your eyes and stop crying," he said. Silently, she accepted the cloth and wiped the drops from her cheeks, asking him to forgive her.
Fuck, he thought to himself, all this just because I won't give her a little kiss. Angry with himself, he wondered why a woman would put so much value on a little thing like a kiss. Realizing that he would have to force himself to kiss her, he was satisfied that he could then go home. She would be happy. She could go to bed and sleep it off.
From the kitchen he heard the clunks and 'bumps' the coffeepot was making.
"Coffee is ready. I'll go get you a cup. You'll be all right. What do you want in it?"
"Thank you," she said, looking at him gratefully.
He was astonished. "For what?"
"For being so nice to me."
"Sure." He went into the kitchen and poured the hot coffee into a cup. "What do you want in it?" he called from the next room.
"Just black."
The cup tottered onto the saucer as he carried it into the living room. He warned her, as he passed it to her, that it was very hot. She sipped it, pulling her head quickly away.
"It's hot!" she exclaimed.
"I told you it was hot. Crissake's, don't you ever listen?"
"I'm sorry."
Angered now, he almost yelled at her. "And don't be so fucking sorry for everything!" "Don't go, Tom."
"I'm not going anywhere. Don't worry."
"Good!"
"Drink the coffee." She finished the coffee, excused herself and went into the bathroom. She walked steadier now that she had laid off the liquor and had had the black coffee. He waited impatiently for her to return, smoking two cigarettes.
Then she came out. Her hair was fixed, her dress was neater, and her face was freshly scrubbed of the dried tears.
"How do I look now?" she asked him, parading before him.
"Very nice."
She smiled, but her expression was still sad. Sinking to the couch beside Tom, she put his hard muscular hand between her two delicate ones. "I made a fool of myself."
"No, not really. You just had too much to drink. That's all."
"I'm sorry if I offended you in any way."
He was angry again. She was still apologizing and she was still telling him about it. Why, he asked, didn't she just forget it. "All you did was to get too much alcohol, which made you act sort of strange."
"Do you still like me?" You would think, he thought, I was a parent being asked to forgive a child.
"I still like you, yes. As a matter of fact, I like you better when you're sober. You look a hell of a lot prettier now than you did before." He knew he would have to kiss her, now, no matter how much he feared it. He put his arm around her shoulder to console her and pressed her left shoulder into his rib cage.
"Don't worry, Alicia." He bent down and moved his lips towards hers. Moistening them with saliva, he waited for her to push him away. But she did not do so. Instead, she waited for him when she saw him coming.
She, too, wetted her lips, expectantly. She closed her eyes as she felt the soft lips press wetly against hers. She opened her mouth slightly waiting for his tongue to enter her mouth. When it did not, she took the initiative and forced her tongue into his mouth.
He accepted the tongue greedily and for many seconds their tongues brushed against each other. The rasping feeling of his tongue on her, and the same of hers on his, excited them both.
The last time she remembered she had been kissed was more than seven or eight years ago, by her husband prior to his death.
Even when he was alive, kissing was just a simple thing between them. A peck on the lips. She recalled the number of times they had been in bed. Whenever he wanted to screw her, he would never indulge in any foreplay. He had always just grabbed her gown and said, "Spread your legs."
He had always aroused himself by turning to her. She had resented this approach greatly. She had wanted to participate. She had desired to rouse him as she thought a woman should, but he had never wanted to be bothered.
And now with Tom's tongue playing with the insides of her mouth-the tide having turned and he poked his tongue into her oral cavity, shoving her back-she pressed herself against him, wanting him to know how much she liked it. She rubbed his nipples through all the layers of cloth, covering him with her breasts.
She felt her nipples stiffen with desire. Pulling away from him, she whispered, "Make love to me."
Tom knew now what she wanted. In response, his hand pressed at the back of her dress. He was trying to find the zipper. He found it and with thumb and forefinger, he slowly pulled it down her back.
Excited to such a high degree, she pulled away from him and stood up. She pulled the dress from her shoulders, letting it fall onto the floor. Semi-naked, she stood before him and demanded that he strip her completely.
Excited, too, Tom reached up and placed both hands on her tits. She leaned into his hands as they plied the soft flesh.
"Let's go into the bedroom." He stood up, taking her by the hand. She followed obediently. Unassisted by him, she finished undressing, and stood proudly naked before him.
He went berserk. This was the first time he had ever had a woman-much less seen one-naked. Of course, he had seen plenty in magazines, but this was for real! His hands flew around her body. He clutched at her breasts, ass, cunt, bush, thighs. He was trying to touch and feel and sense and see everything all at once.
"Screw me," she whispered. His fingers found her twat and pressed against the warm folds of wet skin. A finger entered the cavity and she tightened her muscles around his single finger. Pleasurably, the finger slipped in and out until she groaned and clutched her legs together. She came.
Never having seen a female come, Tom was surprised at her reactions. But she seemed very happy about the whole thing, and now he wanted her to continue. Stillness lay about the apartment.
The only sounds were her breathing and the creaking of the bed as his hand moved up and down, up and down...
"Take off your clothes," she said suddenly. By now, Tom was feeling extremely excited. Covered with sweat, his erect cock hurt as it pressed against his tight pants. "I want to see your cock," she said. In a semi-daze, he stood and began unbuttoning his shirt. He heard the clicking from the still living room.
"What's that?"
"Oh, my god! It must be midnight! My daughter is home!"
"What do we do now?" He was panicking.
"You go out there and put your jacket back on. Unlatch the door. I locked it from the inside so she won't be able to get in."
At that instant, the doorbell rang. "That's her. Now go out there and tell her I'm in the bathroom. Give me just enough time to get dressed. Throw my dress in from the living room, please, before you open the door."
Rebuttoning his shirt, Tom exited into the living room. He picked up her dress and tossed it back through the door to her. He noticed the coolness of the room compared, that was, to the bedroom. His back was covered with sweat.
He put on his jacket, ran his hands through his hair and went to the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned for a last look at the room. He flipped on the lights and the room was flooded with light. He unlatched the chain and pulled the door open.
Velma and her boyfriend, whom Tom saw for the first time now, stood in the doorway.
"How come the door was locked?" she asked him, passing him into the living room.
"I didn't know it was locked. Your mother must have done it or something." The kid entered behind her, glancing up at him for an instant 'hi.' "Hello," Tom replied. Although he did not know it, this boy was actually an obnoxious little brat. He acted and spoke like one and he was dressed in the fifteen-year-old's style, wearing bell bottoms which hid his skinny legs and accentuated his unusually wide hips. His hair hung blackly down his shoulders in dirty strings, covering his ears completely.
"Who's your friend?" Tom asked.
"Where's my mother?" Velma queried back.
"She's in the toilet." His disdain for saying 'bathroom', which seemed dirty to him, had let him in for the more unlikely statement. But she ignored it.
"He's Gene, my boyfriend." She turned to Gene. "He's Tom. He worked in mother's office or something." Tom put out his hand. Realizing that Gene was no female, he gave him a handshake that tore through the boy's arm with pain.
"Holy shit! Whaddaya tryin' to do?" Gene yelled. "Rip off my arm or somethin'!"
"Sorry," Tom said, letting go of the boy's hand. Gene tore his jacket off and flung it onto a convenient chair. Sitting on the couch, he twiddled his thumbs until it began irritating Tom.
"Do you mind?"
"Mind what?"
"Your goddamned fingers!"
"What about them?"
"They move beautifully. Stop twisting them around!"
This guy's nuts, Gene thought to himself. Real nuts!
Meanwhile, Velma went into the kitchen to prepare sodas for Gene and herself. She came into the living room long enough to ask Tom if he would like one, too. He declined but asked if there was any coffee left. Checking, she called out that she was heating it.
Shortly, she returned to the living room carrying two glasses. She handed one of the supposedly 'only coke and ice cream' sodas to Gene. Thinking they were grown up, Velma had added a touch of rum. At least, to her thinking, it added to the usual soda.
Tom watched them as they sipped the drinks silently. She was a very good-looking girl and would have a terrific body, he thought. When she grows up.
Quietly, Mrs. Sinclair returned to the living room, acting as if nothing had happened. Still in a state of non-reality, Tom remembered finger-fucking her. But it seemed as though he had only dreamed it.
Ignoring Tom completely, she felt guilty that she had to undress before a man-undress herself, that is-even though it might be her own desire to do so. She wanted to enjoy sex with Tom, as she was determined it would eventually happen. She was lonely and starved.
"Hello, kids." She greeted them brightly. "How was the movie?"
"It was okay," her daughter answered.
"It stunk." Gene was being his usual obstinate self.
She went to Tom, ignoring their contradictory answers. "Are you all right?" He nodded and looked at her suspiciously. She's forgotten about it all, he thought bitterly. Meanwhile, the kids finished their sodas and went into the kitchen.
Looking into the living room, Gene saw Mrs. Sinclair and Tom sitting on the sofa.
Quickly, he turned to Velma, pulling her into his arms and kissing her wetly. She accepted his small immature tongue into her mouth graciously and sucked on the top of it for a few seconds.
Nervously, he pulled away from her and looked through the doorway into the living room again. They were still sitting on the couch, so he felt it was safe to continue for at least a few more minutes. Again and again, he kissed her, brushing his lips against hers. She began twisting her hips, grinding into his groin, trying to make him erect.
She continued grinding, harder and harder. But through the layers of clothing between them, she could not tell if he had an erection or not. So she became bolder and thrust her hand between his legs, feeling.
"Hey!" He jumped back from her probing. So she withdrew quickly and looped her arms around him so that she could kiss him again. His anger was only a flash and he readily returned to her lips and played with her tongue for a few minutes longer.
But as fear grew within him, he pulled himself away and told her they had best get out of the kitchen before her mother got suspicious.
She was sullen, but she accepted his argument, agreeing that he was right. They returned to the living room only to find Mrs.
Sinclair and Tom kissing. They stood in the doorway, fascinated by the sight of two adults kissing. They could feel the passion tingling in the air. Tom's arms were wrapped tightly around her shoulders and both kept their mouths opened trying to force each other's tongues into each other's mouths.
Wanting to come in without letting them know that he and Velma had been watching, he looked around for a suitable diversion to warn them. He turned back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door, slamming it hard. The sound echoed through the apartment.
Looking back in, he found they had disengaged themselves. They appeared to have been sitting, talking all along. He and Velma walked into the living room, acting ignorant of what they had just witnessed.
Tom wiped his hand across his face to clean away the saliva dripping from his chin. He was now excited to the point where he wished the two kids would disappear, leaving him alone with her. He wanted to make love to her, now. He wanted to fuck . . . fuck . .. fuck. He saw his cock sliding in and out... in and out. . .
"Tell the kids to go away," he whispered into her ear.
"How?" She could see no plausible explanation to use with the kids that would make them leave. But, it was late. Turning to them he said, "It's after midnight. I think it's too late for you two to be up."
Nodding, she agreed with Tom's suggestion. "Velma, it's time you went to bed. It's after twelve, you know."
"Yes, mother." Knowing he had to leave, Gene walked over and picked up his jacket. Putting it on, he went out the door with her walking a few steps behind. "Can I see him to his door?"
"No, you'd better not. It's late and I don't want you walking through the halls by yourself. He's old enough to see himself out."
Velma opened the door for him. As he walked through the door, she told him to call tomorrow afternoon. He said he would and went home.
Gene, or rather Ricardo del Montrono, lived within the same building. His parents lived in another wing and on another floor. He hated living in such cramped quarters, jammed in with so many total strangers. He swore that, when he grew up, he would get himself a house out in the country where there were fewer people. He was a very determined young man.